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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972371">Self-Preservation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatleboots/pseuds/beatleboots'>beatleboots</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>We Happy Few (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:49:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>87,208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972371</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatleboots/pseuds/beatleboots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of the fire and into the frying pan, Arthur has quite the adventure ahead of himself in Mainland England. <br/>An ambitious, young "fellow reporter" might be able to help him find where Percy got to after all these years. All he has to do in return? Become just a teeny smidge famous.<br/>Out of Wellington Wells, Arthur struggles to cope with his trauma and adjust to the new truths and lives that await him. And when it comes down to some tough choices, in the midst of a humanitarian crisis, will he be able to choose others over his own self-preservation?<br/>Post-canon: picks up right where Arthur's story left off.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Hastings &amp; Percival Hastings, Sally Boyle &amp; Arthur Hastings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Well, You've Made Your Bed, Arthur, Haven't You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Cross-posted to Wattpad (I'm beat-alls there).<br/>So, I picked sort of a funny time starting to write this, in the last week before the Spring semester of school starts up. So I can't guarantee how quickly I'll be able to update.<br/>Still, I've got a pretty decent rough mental map of the arc of this story, so I'm excited to realize it.<br/>It's heavily focused on Arthur's perspective, though I expect to bring in some other main characters' perspectives later. I will update the tags as necessary.<br/>Although I enjoy researching to lend this depiction of England in the 1960s as much depth and accuracy as I can, I may have taken some artistic liberties with some things.<br/>If you're reading this right now - well, thank you! I hope you enjoy the story.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur Hastings hadn’t really thought this through.<br/>
It occurred to him that he had been so focused on the objective of simply getting out of Wellington Wells - a necessity for his survival, no doubt, and for any objective after that - but he’d not really formulated any sort of plan for once he’d escaped into the outside world. And, in a way, how could he have? Information on the rest of England’s fate had been nearly completely suppressed in Wellington Wells. He’d witnessed that; in fact, participated in it first-hand in his former job as Editor at the Department of Archives, Printing, and Recycling. He wouldn’t have known what to expect.<br/>
But now, as he walked through the forest, seeing the dying light of dusk settle upon the tops of the trees, it had sunk in that he didn’t exactly know where he was going, nor where to start, once he found his way. <i>Damnit, Arthur</i>, he chastised himself. <i>You could’ve at least asked that Inspector on the bridge for directions</i>. Though, directions to where, exactly?<br/>
Arthur wasn’t sure if his perception of time was still altered as a residual effect of Joy, but this stretch of forest somehow seemed more endless than the expanses in the Garden District. The rain had stopped by now - maybe it was… two hours ago, at this point? - but there was still a haze upon the dimming sky. <i>A rather shit day indeed</i>. It was starting to get truly dark now, and he couldn’t help but feel a primal fear mounting from the depths of his chest. He stepped more softly now. His heart raced at every little sound he’d heard, every snapping of a twig in the distance; every time, he half-expected a plague wastrel to jump out of the shadows and start frantically trying to bash his brains in. <i>Don’t be daft</i>, he told himself. <i>There’s no way they could’ve made it out as far as here. The plague hasn’t crossed over to this shore.</i> He paused, hearing an eerie, disembodied thud. ...<i>Right</i>? He pressed on, more urgently now, imagining his nonexistent pursuer on his heels until he was finally satisfied there was no one there.<br/>
Or at least... No person. Hearing the call of an owl in the distance nearly set him off again, and he realized how long it had been since he’d seen animals besides the paltry selection of birds, bees, and rats that were left in Wellington Wells. Who knows what could be out here...<br/>
Arthur decided he was better off not hearing sounds. He started humming to himself, a nervous, tuneless improvisation, just loud enough to cover up some of the forest’s subtler nighttime sounds - the harmless, natural sounds of nocturnal wildlife, made all the louder and more frightening to the ear by the impairment of the eyes. Well, that should stop him from all this getting-frightened-over-nothing nonsense. Still, he kept his eyes alert, constantly darting around to scan his surroundings, a habit which, by necessity, had practically come naturally to him by now.<br/>
How he wished he had stopped to talk more with that boy with the ball! Surely, the kid couldn’t have been too far from home, and that would have meant that civilization wouldn’t have been far off. But it was light out then, and he seemed to have the whole new day ahead of himself. He’d known that he wanted to head to... wherever the people were, and he had, for whatever reason, felt a perhaps unwarranted confidence that he would end up in the right place if he just kept walking where his gut was telling him to go. He now started to worry that perhaps he had gone in, well, the complete opposite direction from where the people were.<br/>
Arthur kept walking until the weight of exhaustion began to pull at him almost unbearably. When was the last time he’d had a rest? He couldn’t remember. <i>Still, Arthur, could’ve picked a thousand better places to settle down for the night than in the middle of the bloody wilderness.</i> <i>No hope of finding a maintenance workers’ shelter out here, I suppose</i>? Yet he couldn’t deny that he was hardly doing himself any favors by plodding on when he could barely see where he was going anyways, and when the power cell in his torch wasn’t going to last forever. It would be much better, he thought, to wait till morning to get his bearings properly and decide which direction to go. But how could he keep himself safe? If there was anything out there, man or beast, that would do him harm - and he was <i>sure</i> there wasn’t, but still - if there were any threats, he’d be an easy target, out here in the open.<br/>
He looked up; hadn’t he read somewhere, long ago, that early humans once slept in treetops to keep safe from predators? He studied the trunk of the nearest tree, considering… and then considered against it. That sounded like more trouble in the end - and a tremendous way to get a concussion. Yes, he thought, perhaps his tree-climbing days ought to be behind him.<br/>
But perhaps there was somewhere out of the way, a little hidden alcove somewhere that might be more secure. He wandered about for a while, peering around trees and pushing aside patches of brush, until he came upon a little depression to the side of a large rock, bordered by a few tall trees. If not as good as proper shelter, this felt… safer than being out in the complete open.<br/>
☒ <i>Find somewhere to stay the night</i><br/>
Arthur took out an old, torn suit and a few cloth scraps from his bag, and stooped to spread them out on the leaf-covered forest floor. The earth was still damp from rain, but he hoped this would provide at least a little comfort for himself. <i>Well</i>, <i>here goes</i>, he thought, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground and pulled the ratty fabric around himself. The ground was hard and cold, and he knew he’d feel it in his back if he stayed like this for very long, but all told, it wasn’t that much worse than other “accommodations” he’d found for himself in his travels about Wellington Wells - old, hard beds with questionable histories in corners of underground shelters. He remembered one particularly uneasy night he’d spent laying low in a bed nestled in the rubble of an abandoned house out in the Garden District, no roof over his head and no guarantee he’d be safe from all the wastrels about. His mind was weary that night, heavy with memories. It was… Right, yes, it was the night after he’d run into she-whom-he-has-agreed-not-to-think-about for the first time in 14 years. Comfort-wise, that was only a small step up from his current setup.<br/>
He stretched out in his improvised sleeping bag (if you could even call it that), smoothing out the fabric and clasping his hands under his cheek like a makeshift pillow. “Well, I suppose this is about as good as I deserve,” he observed, laughing mirthlessly to himself. He sighed wearily but kept his eyes open, staring blankly into the dark, formless shadows before his eyes. He intended only to rest his body; it seemed too risky to allow himself to give in to sleep, in such unfamiliar surroundings. So he laid alert and he rested, abjectly.<br/>
…<br/>
………..<br/>
………………..<br/>
Christ! Had he been this famished the whole bloody time? He didn’t know what it was - perhaps the opportunity to stop and really be aware of himself for the first time in countless hours, the first chance to rest after many long hours - but he suddenly realized just how hungry he really was. He was starving!<br/>
Luckily, he’d prepared for this - as best he could. He practically tore open his bag and pulled out a sandwich, devouring it and washing it down with a canteen of filtered water. He’d assembled together as much scarcely-available viable food and un-contaminated water as he could scavenge in Wellington Wells, so that he had enough for at least a few days on his own. But beyond that… Well, even with the knowledge of forageable plants that Percy had instilled in him, he wasn’t sure how long he could manage living out here. God, he hoped he’d be able to find <i>someplace</i> soon. Whatever awaited him, he was sure he’d be on more solid footing, survival-wise, in a more familiar environment.<br/>
Now sated, he put away the canteen and hugged his bag of belongings to his chest, laying down again. And though he told himself he wouldn’t sleep, and tried his best to stay on guard, eventually he felt his breathing slow and his eyes fall shut.</p><p>“Percy? Is that… You?”<br/>
Arthur could just barely recognize his brother in his current state. He bore the countenance of a man who had seen a lot in his time - and not altogether good things. The marks of a difficult life were set upon his face, deep wrinkles in the aged skin. There was a broken, listless quality to him that was reflected in his less-than-modest surroundings: the kitchen of a small, dingy shack with the floral wallpaper peeling off the walls.<br/>
Percy was an old man. How much time <i>had </i>passed, after all? Arthur looked down at his own hands. The skin there was wrought and weathered, too.<br/>
“Do - do I know you?” He grunted impatiently, setting down the tea kettle he’d been holding.<br/>
“Yes! Of course you know me! I’m your brother. Arthur.” He implored. “Arthur Hastings,” he added, as if that was necessary. “Look,” he began, more gently, “I know I’ve done something absolutely -”<br/>
“L… look, you’ve got the wrong house. I don’t <i>have</i> a brother.” There was a coldness in his voice. He seemed to be not looking at Arthur but looking through him.<br/>
Arthur felt a great agony, like his heart would burst. “What do you mean you haven’t got a brother!” He cried, taking a step closer to him. “<i>I’m</i> your brother. Your brother Arthur. Don’t you remember? Remember when I peeped on Sally from the tree and you took the fall for me? Remember when you went swimming in the fountain without your clothes and I had to get you out of trouble? Don’t you remember me?” He put his hand on his shoulder. “When you… Please, I know I don’t deserve… But… But I’m sorry, I really -”<br/>
Something seemed to register in Percy’s eyes, then, a flicker of recognition. “Oh. <i>Arthur</i>. My little brother, <i>Arthur</i>.”<br/>
“You do remember me…” Arthur’s eyes welled up with tears, but when he blinked to clear his vision, he saw that his brother’s expression mirrored none of his relief or awe. In fact, it seemed to have gone to stone, betraying no emotion at all.<br/>
“Get... the <i>fuck</i> out of... my house.” His words were measured, firm, and above all, dripping with cold resentment. He shook Arthur’s hand off his shoulder roughly, as if it disgusted him to even look upon it.<br/>
Arthur panicked. “No - I mean, yes, I… I will, if that’s what you want, but can’t I please… can’t we just talk, for a moment? Can’t I have the chance to say something first?”<br/>
“No.” Without turning his back to him, Percy stepped backwards into the wall, getting as far away as he could, and reached behind himself to press a button there. <i>Wait, what was that</i>? <i>Had that been there before</i>?<br/>
Sirens blared and within mere seconds, a team of Bobbies had slid up from their pneumatic poles and surrounded Arthur on all sides, thumping their batons against their hands, sadistic grins of anticipation on their masked faces. “Is this man ‘ere, ah…” one of them gestured towards Arthur, “bothering you, Mr. Hastings?” A nod towards Percy.<br/>
“Yeah. Rotten Downer broke into my house.”<br/>
Arthur put his hands up, his eyes wide. “Please… I don’t mean to hurt anybody, I was just…”<br/>
“You’ll come with us then, eh?” The Bobby took out a pair of handcuffs. “Wouldn’t want to have to <i>hurt</i> you, would we, fellas?” A chorus of unsettling grins.<br/>
“No! Don’t take me away from my brother! Don’t take me away from Percy… Please, I’ve made some mistakes, but don’t make me…” He wrested himself away from the Bobby’s attempts to restrain him, backing himself against a wall.<br/>
“Resisting arrest, are we? We <i>won’t</i> ‘ave it!” As if on cue, the Bobbies raised their clubs and advanced upon him.<br/>
Recovering enough from his shock for his survival instinct to kick in, Arthur dodged out of the way and clambered out the window, giving himself a head start while the Bobbies went out the door on the other side of the house instead, blowing their whistles for reinforcements and growling “We’ve got a Downer on our ‘ands!” Of course, this head start wasn’t much of an advantage, because all the Wellies who saw him joined in on the pursuit. They trailed close behind as Arthur flew as fast as he could down the street, his head darting from side to side as he looked for somewhere to duck into and hide, but there seemed to be nothing - just the longest road he’d ever seen, stretching on far into the horizon. “<i>How</i> did I get back in Wellington Wells?” He panted, under his breath. “God, I don’t want to die like <i>this</i>… Not when I was… So close to…”<br/>
He felt like he’d been running forever. His countless pursuers seemed impossibly fast, to be consistently gaining ground on him despite him running as hard as he could. He felt a bout of lightheadedness come over him and he closed his eyes to try and focus just on pumping his legs as fast as possible.<br/>
When he opened his eyes, the end of the road was much closer than it had been, like it had jumped back suddenly - it was only a few metres ahead of himself. But it was a dead end. He looked over his shoulder for the first time…<br/>
And couldn’t help but turn around completely. He was now seeing the world in desaturated colors, like a bad Joy withdrawal. It seemed… More real. But everybody looked so <i>thin</i>. They were the horrific picture of long-term starvation, emaciated to the point of the bones nearly piercing through the flesh, their clothes hanging like drapes over their malnourished bodies; even the Bobbies, no longer imposing, all knobby wrists and sunken cheeks under helmets that even looked too big on their frames… And it was getting worse, too, it was getting worse by the second, it was like their skin was shrinking and then it started… falling off… the people of Wellington Wells all dying… it was horrible, it was too horrible, but he couldn’t look away. His eyes were fixed in place; he took a step back and then another. The flesh was all gone now; they were just bones… They seemed to freeze in midair and then collapse, no longer held together, sinking down to the ground with their heaps of vacated clothes. He struggled to catch his breath, wanting to shout, to say something, react in some way, but he couldn’t. The ground began to rumble beneath them, the rainbow stripes crumbling into innumerable mosaic titles as the street collapsed in on itself, taking the skeletons down with it. Arthur backed away, glancing behind himself - still a dead end. The very ground was falling in, giving way right in front of the tips of his shoes. He frantically looked around for higher ground, somewhere he could escape to - but he lost his footing, stumbling, grasping at pieces of the street that simply came to pieces in his hands, falling, falling, falling. He was falling endlessly into a Motilene-purple glow, a bottomless chasm beneath and above him.</p><p>Arthur woke up in a cold sweat, coming back to reality slowly. His eyes were open, seeing the new, grey morning skies, the treetops slanting upwards, but his mind lagged behind just a second, still stuck in the dream world. He heard his voice call out “<i>Percy</i>!” before he recognized he was the one doing it. He let his voice fall to a whisper and then fall silent, steadying himself with ragged breaths. He sat up and looked around. Everything was the same as he left it. The same trees, same rock, same little divet with torn rags spread over it, same bag with all his belongings. He was safe. <i>I’m not in Wellington Wells anymore</i>, he kept repeating to himself, trying to convince his limbic system of what his mind had already gathered and calm himself down. <i>And, if there is still even an ounce of mercy in this world, I will never see that shithole town again</i>.<br/>
He shivered, gathering the old mud-stained suit about himself one more time before carefully wrapping it up and replacing it in his bag. He pulled himself to his feet and stood for a moment, looking around and wondering where to go, trying to find any clues in the landscape that might reveal his position.<br/>
He hadn’t really had the chance to reflect upon it while he was still in Wellington Wells, but now that he was relatively safe, it had occurred to him just how many times he nearly died in the past couple of… how long was it? Days? Weeks? There was a strange sort of terror in looking back and thinking just how narrowly he’d managed to avoid being beat to death, or shocked to death, or plague-infected to death, or practically innumerable other demises… and the things that he’d had to do to avoid said deaths. He decided that he was either extremely lucky to have survived… or incredibly unfortunate.<br/>
Wait, what was that? Somewhere on the edge of his line of sight, he found his clue. It was faint against the clouded sky, but definite: a grey billow of smoke, rising up from layers of treetops up ahead. <i>Smoke</i>! He thought. <i>If there’s smoke, there must be people! Or… Y’know, the start of a forest fire</i>. He pressed on in the direction it was coming from.<br/>
☒ <i>Find the source</i><br/>
The beacon-call of the smoke brought Arthur to a clearing, in the center of which, to his relief, was a little cream-colored cottage with a stout chimney and well-maintained flower boxes on the window sills. It looked lived-in and friendly. Even though Arthur knew as well as any Downer that a cheery exterior does not necessarily mean a civil and patient interior, he had to admit this was promising. At least, he couldn’t imagine being chased away with a cricket bat by whoever lived in this house. <i>Maybe they’ll only scream at me</i>, he thought wryly. <i>Maybe it’s a house full of old ladies like that Thomasina House back in St. George’s Holm and they’ll think I’m here to burgle ‘em.</i><br/>
He walked up the path leading to the front door and took a deep breath. <i>Alright, Arthur. Just knock and you shall be answered. Put on your best smile and ask if they could help you with directions. You can manage that, can’t you?</i> It was a simple enough task - perhaps critical to his survival, in fact - and yet he felt strangely bashful about it.<br/>
<i>Oh! I should probably try and neaten myself up a little bit. Might help my case. I must look a madman, after that sort of night’s sleep I had. </i>Using a scrap of metal to see his reflection, he ran his fingers through his curls, fixing his part, adjusting his tie, and trying to make the most agreeable expression he could. <i>Much better</i>. <i>Alright. Here goes</i>. He held his breath, held up his fist in front of the door and…<br/>
And…<br/>
Here goes nothing…<br/>
Before he could finally work up the nerve to knock, the door flew open, and he flinched back at the sight of the matronly aproned women holding a trowel in her hand, which was raised up high like a dagger.<br/>
The lady looked just as surprised to see him as he was surprised to see her, and, following his deer-in-the-headlights gaze, gave a sheepish smile and lowered the trowel arm. “Oh! I’m sorry, love. I was just on my way to do some work in the garden. What brings you here?” There was genuine warmth and humility in her demeanor, although it was mixed with a trace of uncertainty as she looked him over and waited for him to reply.<br/>
“Er, ah, lovely day for it, ma’am!” He blurted reflexively, once he snapped out of it. “Sorry for being a bother, but I ah… Well, I seem to be a bit lost. I’m… traveling, but I think I made a wrong turn somewhere, and could use some directions to the nearest town.”<br/>
“Traveling?” She raised an eyebrow and looked him over again, and Arthur swore he saw some kind of… Understanding, in her eyes. “My, how long have you been walking around out here?”<br/>
“Oh, only a… Little while.” He smiled sheepishly.<br/>
“Well, I’d be happy to help direct you. Do come in.” She opened the door wider, stepping back so as to allow him entry. “You must be tired. You will come in and have a cuppa, won’t you? We can discuss it over tea.”<br/>
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your gardening…”<br/>
“Oh, it’s no trouble. My zinnias can wait a little longer; they know they’re not my only children.” She chuckled. “Come in and have a cuppa. I just finished taking a fresh tray of biscuits out of the oven. You can have as many as you like - as long as my boys haven’t eaten them all already!”<br/>
“Well, then… If you insist.” Arthur’s smile widened, and he took a step into the doorway. <i>Wasn’t this how the story of Hansel and Gretel started</i>? He asked himself, in the back of his head. But he couldn’t be overly distrustful at a time like this, when this lady was currently his only sign of humanity and best hope for finding more. Besides, how could he resist that smell?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Promise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So, Arthur, if you don’t mind me asking… What’s got you on the road? Is there an occasion for your trip?” The kind lady poured tea into the two teacups she’d set out on the small round kitchen table. Arthur sat at the one side, straight and a bit visibly stiff in his chair, bouncing his knee unconsciously. He looked, he imagined, like a young man who was meeting his very first girlfriend’s parents and forgot how to make himself comfortable in a new place.<br/>
He raised his gaze to her. “Oh… Yes, well, it’s… Sort of a... Long story, I suppose. I’m trying to find someone I used to know.”<br/>
“Oh? A long lost love, perchance?”<br/>
“Well, not exactly.” <i>At least, not in that sense of love</i>.<br/>
She picked up two small pastries from a tray and placed them on a plate which she set in front of Arthur. “Do have some biscuits, love. They’re chocolate; there’s more, too, so don’t be shy. You’re as thin as a garden rake - you can have as much as you like.”<br/>
“Chocolate?” He gazed down with awe. Real chocolate. He couldn’t remember the last time there was a shipment of chocolate to Wellington Wells. If there had been any, they must have been reserved to the very important. “I haven’t had chocolate in years... Thank you, Mrs. Donahue. You’re too kind.” He hesitated for a moment with a still-warm biscuit in his hand, half-wondering what the “catch” was, if there was something she expected in return for her kindness - but he could hardly turn her down.<br/>
“Oh, please - call me Martha.” She smiled and took her seat opposite him. “You’ve not had chocolate in years? May I ask where you come from, love?”<br/>
“Just a... little island off the Channel.”<br/>
“Ah.” Martha gave him a knowing smile. She leaned forward, folding her hands, and half-whispered it: “Wellington Wells?”<br/>
“Well - yes, actually.”<br/>
“I thought as much.” She settled back in her chair, watching his eyes. “You had the look about you.”<br/>
“Oh.” He took an uncertain sip of his tea. “You’ve met… Many of them - us - then?”<br/>
“Yes, we’ve had a few show up on our doorstep, rail-thin and nervous like yourself, over our years of living here. I suppose because we’re so nearby, after all. We’ve tried our best to help them… It mustn’t be easy, from what I gather.” There was a certain softness, a sensitivity to her voice. “Skipping over to the other side, after all these years…”<br/>
“You’ve got that right. Seems they’ve done all they can to… to... pen us up in there. I think... very few people are able to get out - even if they want to.”<br/>
“Yes…” Her voice got quiet again. “And I think even fewer make it, once they do.”<br/>
“What?”<br/>
“Well, you know… The things they’ve told me, these brave few who I’ve met that dared skip over… It’s a hard life you lot have had, you know. I only mean that coming over here, seeing… It can all be a bit much to handle, for some of them. Some of the poor loves simply can’t reconcile the old with the new... and, it breaks them.”<br/>
“You mean they…”<br/>
“Not all! Certainly not all,” she reassured, reading the look of deep worry on Arthur’s face and seeming to regret giving him cause for concern. “Goodness, please excuse my manners. What’s gotten into me? I don’t mean to frighten you.”<br/>
<i>Well, that makes me bloody hopeful</i>.<br/>
“Really, I do think you’ve a good head on your shoulders. I think you’ll be just fine,” she added.<br/>
“...Thank you. I hope so.” He forced a smile.<br/>
“Well, Arthur,” she changed the subject, pouring herself more tea and offering some to him. “Tell me more about this person you’re off looking for.”<br/>
“It’s my brother. I used to be close to him, but… Something happened, I… let him down.” <i>Understatement of the fucking year, Arthur</i>. “I’m trying to make it up to him. If I can.”<br/>
“Oh? And where does he live, then?”<br/>
“I… don’t know.”<br/>
Her eyes widened; she seemed to understand, then. “Is that how come you left?”<br/>
“Yeah. Suppose it is.”<br/>
“Well, I’ll help you best I can. Where was it you needed directions to?”<br/>
“If my sense of direction’s correct, I’m heading east, in the direction of Bristol. If it’s not too much trouble, I just wanted to know the way to the nearest town.” He paused, biting his lip. How could he be so sure there was anything <i>left</i> of the next town over? “That is… The next place with people in it.”<br/>
“Oh, it’s hardly far at all. I’ll get a map - I’ll show you.” She got up out of her chair, then paused. “But… Before you head off, I’d like to invite you to stay for a night or two. It’s hardly the Taj Mahal, I know, but we’ve room enough - a small room we could set you up in. You must be tired. A bit of time to rest, some nutritious meals in your stomach - why, you should be right as rain, then, and all the more prepared to continue on.”<br/>
Arthur’s eyes went wide with gratitude. It seemed almost too good to be true - what trust did this lady feel for him, what motivation did she have to let a sorry stranger such as himself into her home and hearth?<br/>
“And,” she continued, “it would give me a chance to wash that suit of yours for you. It… does seem like it needs it.”<br/>
Arthur looked down at the front of his blazer and flushed with embarrassment. How long had those spots of dirt been there? “Well, I’m much obliged, Mrs. - er, Martha. It’s a very generous offer... You’re really sure you don’t mind?”<br/>
“Of course I am. It’s the most we all can do on this Earth to share what little we may have.” </p><p>Martha had two children, young boys, around maybe 8 and 12 each, and a husband, through whom she lent him some clothes to wear in the meantime. While she insisted on washing his suit - he’d told her he could well enough take care of it himself, but she had insisted - he took a bath. A proper tub bath. Feeling refreshed, he’d changed into Mr. Donahue’s clothes. He felt uncomfortable, and was sure he looked ridiculous. They didn’t fit right - the pants were too short and there was too much room in the waist, and he was eager to wear his own clothes again. He’d sat in the living room, then, exchanging small talk with Mr. Donahue himself - which proved a bit limited, with Arthur of course having next to no knowledge of what to Mr. Donahue must have been “<i>current events</i>” and “<i>cultural touchstones of the last decade and a half</i>.” He was a kind, tactful man, taking after his wife, and he was sensitive of this, but eventually the conversation ran dry and petered out. Arthur was sitting in a chair at the edge of the room, idly glancing at the headlines he could make out on the newspaper in Mr. Donahue’s hands. “HOUSE OF COMMONS VOTES TO ABOLISH DEATH PENALTY.”<br/>
<i>Well, that’s good. So that’s what the Mainland’s been focusing on? Meanwhile the constabulary in Wellington Wells play judge, jury, and executioner to anyone who shows the slightest bit of deviance?</i><br/>
Arthur perked up when he saw Martha in the archway, holding the now-cleaned suit blazer.<br/>
“I noticed a little hole in the arm right here, love,” she observed, pointing. “You don’t mind if I sew it up for you?”<br/>
Arthur stood and strode over to her, gently picking up the blazer and examining it. “Oh, no, Martha, that’s alright. It’s just a little one. I can do it. My mum taught me how to sew.”<br/>
“You’re sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble, really.”<br/>
“Aw, no, really. It’s the least I can do, after you’ve washed it for me. Thank you, again. You’ve done a brill job.” Besides, he thought, it would give himself something to do, the repetitive work helping to still his mind.<br/>
“Alright, if you insist. I’ll go fetch you some thread…”<br/>
Arthur waved her off politely. “No need, thank you. I think I’ve got a sewing kit with me.”<br/>
He took his seat again, opening up the sewing kit box on the side table and holding the jacket on his lap. He set to work, glad as always to have a craft of some sort to focus himself on. The Donahue boys had come back from school, and were playing in the living room. His attention shifted to and away from their antics, picking up the occasional exchange.<br/>
“Let’s play soldiers. You’ll be the German and I’ll be our side.”<br/>
“I don’t want to be the German again! Why do I always have to be the German?”<br/>
“Be<i>cause</i>, George. You’re the younger one, and I’m older than you. I make the rules. That’s how it works.”<br/>
“That’s not fair! I’m not playing if you won’t be fair!”<br/>
Arthur smiled vaguely and looked down again at his work. He still remembered a rhyme to help him along. “<i>Down on the left side and pull the thread through; up on the right side and you know what to do!</i>” He wondered if other mothers taught their children the same rhyme, or if his mum had made that up for him. Why had his mum insisted he learn, anyhow? He concentrated hard, trying to wrest forth a memory.<br/>
“<i>Mum, why have I got to learn how to sew? None of the boys at school can do it.</i>”<br/>
“<i>Because, Artie… It’s an important skill. If you know how to sew, you can mend your clothes when they get torn, without relying on anyone else to do it for you.”</i><br/>
“<i>But it’s hard. The thread keeps tangling up, and I keep sticking my fingers on the pins.”</i><br/>
“<i>You’ll get the hang of it, son. Just keep trying. You’re good with these sorts of things.”</i><br/>
“<i>But I want to go outside and play. Why do you have to… Why do you keep making me learn all these… all these grown-up things?”</i><br/>
“<i>Because… My dear Artie, please listen. I know you’re still young, but… I don’t know what the future holds. Things are changing here, in this country. And Mummy may not always be able to... I just think that in a few years, it could be necessary to... Well, I just want you to be prepared… For anything.</i>”<br/>
“<i>But… But I don’t understand.</i>”<br/>
“<i>I know you love your brother…”</i><br/>
<i>“I do, Mum.”</i><br/>
<i>“Well, you know how Percy… gets himself into odd sorts of situations, sometimes. He can’t help it, he’s just a little… different from everybody else. It’s just the way he is, and we think he’s perfect that way. But, it means you’ve got to be patient with him, and look after him if anything goes wrong.”</i><br/>
<i>“But I know that already. I do. What’s that got to do with this?”</i><br/>
<i>“I know, I know. You do a lovely job. I only mean that, in the future, you may have to be… I want to make sure you can take care of both of yourselves, if you need to. Arthur, I need you to promise me something. No matter what happens, I want you to promise me that you’ll always protect your brother Percy. That you’ll do what you can to make sure he stays safe</i>. <i>Do you promise?</i>”<br/>
<i>“...I promise, Mum.</i>”<br/>
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. <i>I made a promise</i>.<br/>
“I just want to be on the winning side once and a while. <i>I </i>want to stamp out the krauts from the country, just like teacher said we did! Just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I haven’t got a say!”<br/>
<i>I wonder what Mum knew by then? How much she already worried might happen</i>?<br/>
“It’s not <i>all</i> like Miss Aitkins says it is. I remember when I was in Year Four like you, and learning history in her class. Oh… Forget it. When you’re my age you’ll understand.”<br/>
<i>Mum loved Percy so much</i>...<br/>
“Ben, let your younger brother take a turn as a Briton. Surely he ought to get a chance by now, eh?”<br/>
<i>I didn’t really understand what she was talking about then…</i><br/>
“But Dad, he always throws a fuss like this, when he doesn’t get his way. If I give in now, he’ll expect it the next time, and the…”<br/>
<i>But I knew well enough what she was saying about Percy.</i><br/>
“It’s not my fault I can’t be a big kid like you! Sometimes I just want to feel like I’m important too!”<br/>
<i>I made a promise to her. And to Percy himself</i>.<br/>
“...Really? George, you <i>are</i> important. Don’t let <i>me </i>ever make you think you aren’t. Why would you ever say that?”<br/>
<i>And I let my own fear and… bloody selfishness... control me.</i><br/>
“Well, because… Because you’re always doing neat stuff with the other boys, and then you tell me I can’t join in. I’m too young. Sometimes I think… Well, sometimes I think you’d rather be larking about with them, than spending time with me.”<br/>
<i>And, oh God... I betrayed him in the worst way I think a kid could betray his brother.</i><br/>
“George, don’t say that. You know even if I’ve got other friends, you’re always going to be my brother. No matter what, I’m gonna stick by you. Because you’re my baby - er, I’m sorry - <i>younger</i> brother. And… If you want to be grown-up, I’ll help you. Come on, you want me to be the German this time? I will.”<br/>
<i>And then just as soon replaced him with another partner in adventures. Could I really have forgotten him so fast?</i><br/>
“You really mean it?”<br/>
<i>Mum always did fret over Percy so much. And I… And I…</i><br/>
“My, you’re looking a bit down in the mouth. Is everything alright?”<br/>
Mr. Donahue’s voice snapped Arthur out of his memories, and, unexpectedly, set white hot panic flooding through Arthur’s veins. He blinked a few times, struggling to pull out the right words to reassure him.<br/>
“No, no, I’m… Perfectly fine - I - Yes, couldn’t be better, sir!” He tried to smile, but worried it came out more like a grimace. <i>Well done, Arthur. I’m sure you’ve convinced him</i>.<br/>
“Are you sure? You look as though you’ve had a shock…” Mr. Donahue stood up and made to cross over to him.<br/>
Arthur flinched reflexively. Part of him was anticipating violence, and the other part was trying desperately to convince the other half that there was nothing to be afraid of, and why did he have to overreact like this, as a guest in the middle of some strangers’ house?… All the while the blood was pounding in his ears.<br/>
Mr. Donahue stopped in his tracks, and put up his hands. “I only want to help you feel better,” he tried, gently.<br/>
That sounded too familiar. Arthur could practically hear the follow-up: “<i>Why don’t you just take your Joy? Stop bringing me down!</i>” But no, that was ridiculous, right? There was no Joy to be had here. He had made sure of that, dumping out all the stray capsules he’d had on hand as soon as he’d crossed out of Wellington Wells. <i>Stop getting like this all out of nowhere, Arthur. You’re making a fool out of yourself. There’s nothing to fear. See? He genuinely wants to help you. Look how positively bewildered he looks. Just calm down, and get your head out of Wellington Wells.</i><br/>
“Sorry, I’m sorry. I just… Had a strange feeling come over me. I’ll be alright.”<br/>
Mr. Donahue studied his face with concern, then nodded. “Let me get you a glass of water. Or perhaps a dram of strong brandy would do better? That should revive you.”<br/>
“Just… Water, is perfectly fine, thank you,” he managed, taking a few deep breaths.<br/>
“Alright. I’ll be right back.” He headed towards the kitchen, glancing again at Arthur over his shoulder.<br/>
“Dad, what’s wrong with the funny man?” Arthur heard the smaller boy - George, was it? - ask in a hushed voice.<br/>
“Shh! Don’t be rude,” his brother chastised.<br/>
“I think he’s just had a bit of a… Spell, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be alright. Let’s give him some space.” Mr. Donahue leaned to place his hands on the boys’ shoulders and usher them out of the room.<br/>
<i>Great. Well that went great.</i> Arthur looked around the room. His heart rate finally began to slow, and his hands that he hadn’t realized were gripping at the blazer in his lap loosened their hold. He glanced at his handiwork. In his distraction, he’d managed to go completely off course, sewing right through the lining of the sleeve. He’d have to cut the thread and pull out several erroneous stitches. <i>Shit</i>.<br/>
Mr. Donahue came back with the glass of water, setting it on the end table beside Arthur. “Feeling any better, then?”<br/>
“Yes, thank you.”<br/>
“Good, good. You had me worried for a slight second there. Looked like you’d seen a ghost.”<br/>
“Just a, um… Bad memory, is all,” he explained lamely.<br/>
“Right-o. Well, let me know if you need anything.” He seemed to be satisfied, and with that, as though nothing had happened, he sat back down, lit his pipe, and found his place in the newspaper again. And Arthur was glad for that, because he really didn’t want to talk about it. He felt mortified enough as it was. In fact, by the time the Donahue brothers came in to intervene, Arthur had been sitting there overthinking for long enough that he was considering perhaps he should make some polite excuse and leave, rather than staying and steeping in his embarrassment.<br/>
“...Mr. Hastings?” Came the tentative voice of Ben, the older boy. He was peeping round from the side of the archway, his younger brother close behind him.<br/>
“Yes?”<br/>
“We were wondering if…” Gaining confidence, he took a few paces towards Arthur. “You might want to join in on our game?”<br/>
George nodded eagerly with his brother’s words - Arthur wondered if it had been his idea, and he’d convinced Ben to be the one to ask, too shy himself. “We thought it might help cheer you up,” he added to his brother’s invitation.<br/>
Arthur couldn’t help but smile. He realized that the last time he’d really talked to children, he’d been a child himself. After all, there hadn’t been a child in Wellington Wells since the war, even if some of his fellow Wellies (including, probably, himself) acted like children sometimes under the effects of Joy. It was a bit to get used to, living in a world with children again - but it somehow felt quite natural. “Er, yes - Well, of course, lads,” he answered, getting up, dusting himself off, and flashing a grin.<br/>
Ben glanced back at his brother, who was beaming proudly, then back to Arthur. “Great! I mean, thank you, Mr. Hastings.”<br/>
Arthur chuckled. “Well, what are we playing, then?”<br/>
“Soldiers. I think. If that’s alright with you?” Ben asked, hesitating. “You weren’t in the war, were you?”<br/>
“Quite alright.” He gave a playful salute. It was a bit awkward, and more peppy than he’d felt, but every second that he feigned enthusiasm, the better, if by a little, he felt. Perhaps this would cheer him up, after all. “No, I wasn’t in the war. But, er… I do have a soldier uniform with me, in my bag.” <i>And an old bayonet</i>, he thought, but he wasn’t sure if it’d be responsible to tell them about that. <i>Don’t forget the improvised homemade explosives, and the certified Wellington Wells military hallucinogenic homebrew hooch. Gee, I hope your mum doesn’t peek in my bag.</i><br/>
Ben’s eyes widened. “No way!”<br/>
“Mummy said you used to live in that odd little island, the one where people are happy all the time?” George blurted quickly, as if it couldn’t wait any longer, walking fast behind them to keep up. Ben shot him a sour look, one that seemed to say: <i>Don’t muck this up. We’ve got a real grown-up on our side now, don’t pester him with your daft questions</i>.<br/>
“Yes. Yes I did.”<br/>
“How was it like, being happy all the time?”<br/>
“Absolute rubbish,” Arthur replied honestly. For whatever reason, George seemed to find this hilarious. It was catching, and soon, all three of them were laughing genuinely.<br/>
His curiosity about Arthur’s past apparently satisfied, he pressed on excitedly. “Do you know how to build us a tank?”<br/>
“George, why would he know how to build a tank?” Ben protested.<br/>
Arthur took a deep breath, and smiled. “I think I might be able to come up with something.”</p><p>By the time it came time to leave, Arthur felt almost sorry to go. How common was it that he had a safe place to stay, free meals to eat, and, most of all, people that seemed to genuinely care about him, for no apparent reason other than out of the goodness of their own hearts? It was just too good to be true. Martha had extended her offer, trying to convince him to stay longer, but he decided he had to be going. He knew he had a long road ahead of him, and he didn’t want to take away too much time. Besides, he worried that the longer he delayed, the harder it might be to leave.<br/>
He offered multiple times to give her something in exchange for his stay, but she wouldn’t take it.<br/>
“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do to repay you?”<br/>
“No, dearie. I’ve told you, your money is <i>no good</i> here. Besides, you were so helpful with the boys. I ought to pay<i> you</i>, if I had the tin.”<br/>
“Well, if you’re sure. I hope you know how thankful I am, though.”<br/>
“Oh, it’s nothing. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find us.”<br/>
Arthur smiled. “I’ll have to come back and visit you, sometime.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sovereign</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur, you've gotta stop having all these Crushing Realizations.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next town over, as it happened, was the seaside town of Ilfracombe. This was a happy circumstance, because the place wasn’t altogether unfamiliar to Arthur. He’d went there once, he thought, on holiday with his family. He had only the vauguest memories, little fuzzy snapshots in his head, which came back to him as he wandered down the streets, his pace slow and measured as he took in all he could see. It had been sunnier, he thought, in his memories, more idyllic, more… put-together - but he wasn’t sure if that was just the sunshine of nostalgia that often covered childhood memories, or, also quite plausibly, some permanent editorializing made long ago on the part of Joy. The area was a little worse for wear, it seemed - some of the buildings were in slight disrepair, and it seemed to be reaping fewer of the benefits of tourism - though with the weather growing cold, perhaps that was to be expected. Yet it was still… Much better than Arthur had expected. He wouldn’t have necessarily thought that the little town of Ilfracombe would even still be <i>on the map</i> at this point. And yet here it was, not posh but hardly the picture of wartime devastation, either. He walked down the street and watched the people bustle about. They walked not with the exaggerated hand-swinging pep of Joy-addicted Wellies, but not dejected and weary like the citizens of the Garden District, either. It was something different altogether. They carried on business-like, most walking with an apparent purpose or destination in mind - soberly focused, but not so lost within themselves so as to not stop and acknowledge Arthur with a nod or a polite “hello.” It was the smallest thing, but he just wasn’t used to it. He couldn’t help but feel that he must look like the strangest tourist, standing around and gawping (trying not to stare or look too amazed, but gawping all the same) at… Normalcy. A tourist in his own country.<br/>This raised the unavoidable matter of what Arthur was going to do now. He knew the objective - find out what happened to Percy (a towering, intimidating prospect on its own - he knew, though he didn’t like to admit it, that he might not like what he found) and then use that information to try his hardest to find Percy himself. And then… Well, he’d been mentally rehearsing what he might say since he’d started remembering again, although none of it sounded good enough. He had a strong resolve, a ridiculous optimism that told him that against all odds, he was going to find Percy, somehow. Yet he hardly had much of a concrete plan.<br/><i>So, think, Arthur: how can you find out what happened to Percy</i>? There would be no family connections or friends he could really turn to, that would know any better than he did: he had contact with none but his uncle, who he’d left behind in Wellington Wells, in any case. The people who would know would be strangers - he’d have as much luck asking one random person out on the street here as he would asking any other random person if they had ever heard the name of Percival Hastings. <i>Where would Percy be</i>? It was entirely likely, he thought, that he could still be in Germany… Somewhere. He supposed he could just go off to Germany and start looking for him. But, no, that could take far too long. Germany was a big country, and Percy could be anywhere. Arthur didn’t even know where precisely where the train had went. God, it would help if he had any sort of information at all, wouldn’t it?<br/>Such records had been purged from Wellington Wells long ago, he knew. And even if something useful had managed to survive somewhere, it would have been like searching for a needle in a haystack - if the haystack was full of electrified security measures that could detect you metres away and <i>concerned</i> citizens waiting around every corner to bash you for acting suspicious. Had he prolonged his stay to look for some scrap of information, he’d likely have been killed before he managed to escape with something useful.<br/>But… Here, in the Mainland… It was certainly possible that they had done a better job of keeping their records organized, right? So far he wasn’t seeing signs of any sort of systematic... forgetting of the past. People here, he thought, must not be so ashamed of what they’ve done. Maybe this town had some sort of a Preservation Society. Perhaps if he went and asked, they might have some information for him. He decided to fall back upon the old cover story of being a reporter. A good guise to get information and seem important, that was. And, after all, even though his memories of his years in reporting were a little (well, a lot, really) fuzzy from the long term effects of Joy, it was familiar - something he was good at.<br/>☒ <i>Find the Historical Society</i><br/>After walking about and asking a few people for directions, he found the place he was looking for, though he had nearly walked by it. An old-looking but otherwise unassuming building stood in front of him with a brass sign that less proclaimed and more shyly suggested, in script lettering, that this was “The Ilfracombe Preservation Society.” Arthur gathered himself up, preparing his best to seem like he knew exactly what he was doing.<br/>It seemed smaller inside. There was a cramped reception area with some framed documents up on the walls, and a little hard bench across from some bookcases and a desk strewn with papers. At the desk sat a bored-looking, middle-aged man, who looked up from a paper he was writing on when he heard the door open.<br/>“The Resort is the next door down,” he dismissed after giving Arthur a cursory glance and returning to his work. Only now that he’d stepped closer, Arthur could’ve sworn it wasn’t exactly “work” at all and in fact was a pencil sketch of what appeared to be a very large pussycat up in a tree. “Common mistake.”<br/>“No, actually, I’ve come here for the Preservation Society. That is where I am, isn’t it?”<br/>The man at the desk set down his pencil and adjusted his wire-frame glasses on his nose, looking at Arthur with curiosity now. “Well. Yes, it is. Can I help you, sir?”<br/>Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes. I’m a reporter, and I thought you might have some information that would assist me with the piece I’m writing.”<br/>“Oh, really? You’re a reporter? Who do you write for?”<br/><i>Shit. I’d hoped he wasn’t going to ask that. </i>“Oh, yes, I’m with the er, London… Times,” he decided confidently. It had been a while since he’d exactly been a regular reader of any publications from beyond Wellington Wells, but that definitely sounded like a real one. Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? It had to be.<br/>The man’s eyes went wide and he leaned forward, onto the desk. “You’re with The London Times? And you’ve come out to our little old Ilfracombe to write a story? Blimey. Well, I’ll gladly be of help, if I can… What’s your assignment on?”<br/>“I’ve been tasked with writing an investigative piece about what happened to the children of Wellington Wells, after they got on the train to Germany.”<br/>There was an awkward pause, as if the man was waiting for some sort of punchline. Then he let loose a burst of wry laughter. “Oh, you poor sod. Don’t tell me you mean it? No wonder why they’ve sent you here to bloody Ilfracombe.”<br/>Arthur stiffened. <i>Well, that wasn’t the reaction I’d been expecting</i>. “How do you mean?”<br/>“You don’t know?” A flicker of sympathy crossed his face. “Aw, gee, well… I don’t know your situation, mate, but, that’s a… Pretty shit assignment. A dead-end story they’d send some poor new young recruit like yourself on for a laugh. Your first one, I bet? All I mean is it’s not exactly the sort of story anyone would be dying to cover.”<br/>“I’ve been in the industry for over a <i>decade</i>,” Arthur protested self-righteously, though, since what he’d done in his Department job hadn’t exactly been journalism, it was more of a half-truth.         <br/>He put up his hands. “Alright, alright. I don’t doubt you. I just don’t see why The London Times… Only the tabloids cover anything Wellington Wells anymore, when they’re looking for some cheap and sordid rumors to publish. Everyone with half a brain knows it’s fabricated rubbish, though, since nobody’s <i>really</i> heard anything out of there for ten years.” <br/>“But with all due respect, we’re a real publication, not a tabloid, and I’m not looking for rumors, but for factual evidence. I’m not sure I understand why you’re under the impression we wouldn’t run a serious investigative piece.”<br/>“Because…” He hesitated, then continued in a forceful whisper: “They’re bloody dirty traitors, that’s why!” There was clear distaste in his voice. “This great country’s really gone to shit if The London Times has come to covering one of the two so-called English independent city-states that actually bloody conceded to the German order to give up their children. It’s bloody scandalous, is what it is. This new generation just doesn’t understand the gravity…” He muttered impassionedly, trailing off.<br/>Arthur blinked. He felt a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Sorry, what? One of the only two…?”<br/>The man looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes, one of the only two <i>former</i> parts of our nation that was ready to sacrifice their children to the enemy at the drop of a hat. The other being the northern province of Kinden Otterfold, of course.”<br/>Arthur had to grip onto the edge of the desk for support. “Only two… City-states gave up their children?”<br/>“Say, are you <i>sure</i> you’re a reporter with The London Times?” He furrowed his brow skeptically. “Unfortunately, yes, they did.”<br/>“Oh.”<br/>“...Are you feeling alright?”<br/>Arthur felt the strong urge to get out of there, immediately. But he hadn’t accomplished… What had he come in to do again? Right. Right. He pulled himself together, even though his own voice suddenly sounded miles away from him.<br/>“No, I’m alright. It’s just… Just my… ulcers, acting up.”<br/>“Well don’t be ill on my art!” He pulled the cat drawing he’d been working on away from the edge of the desk, defensively. <br/>“I won’t. Sorry. I have it under control.” He took his hands off the edge of the desk. “So do you have any records here then, on the children of Wellington Wells?” It was a bit of an effort to speak.<br/>“If you’d come to write an article on Ilfracombe’s historic 13th century parish church, or the latest on Britain’s oldest lighthouse (still operational, God bless ‘er), then I’d have you right covered, mate. But I don’t have anything on Wellington Wells, sorry.”<br/>“Well… Thanks, anyways.” Arthur turned to leave.<br/>“If… If you’re really serious about finding those records, I’d imagine you’d have more luck back in London, where the government’s got all sorts of official records on that sort of thing, and might have kept something like that. I’d try the Public Records Office, myself.”<br/>He perked up at that, if just slightly. “Oh? I’ll try… I’ll try that, then. Thank you for the tip.”<br/>“Um… Good luck, with that assignment, then.”<br/>“Thanks.” He closed the door behind himself and took a deep breath, back out in the street again.<br/><i>So we’re nearly the only fucking people that gave up our children without question</i>.<br/><i>I’d thought maybe some parts of the country maybe had had the sense to rise up, but not nearly the whole bloody nation.</i><br/><i>If we’d known that, we could’ve…</i><br/><i>Hell, even if we didn’t know, we would’ve managed alright defending ourselves, especially when it was against plywood and papier-mâché.</i><br/><i>So we’re not only horrid, but we’re uniquely horrid in the history of the whole fucking country.</i><br/><i>I’ve wasted the past thirteen years of my life drugged out of my mind on Joy to forget the horrible things we were all complicit in, and living in an oppressive police state, while the rest of England was getting on just swimmingly.</i><br/><i>Good to know.</i><br/><i>Maybe this is why Martha Donahue suggested ex-Wellies don’t fare very well coming back into proper society.</i><br/>Arthur wandered aimlessly around the little town. He hardly was aware of anything but his own thoughts until he realized it had begun to get dark, and he decided to duck into the first inn he found.   </p><p>“Sovereign?” The man behind the inn’s desk squinted at the pile of coins upon the counter. “I don’t believe I’ve seen any of these here since the Great War.” There was a pause; he lifted his gaze to Arthur. “I thought they’d stopped minting ‘em years ago. How’d you come upon them, if you don’t mind me asking?”<br/>“Oh, er, well…” Arthur wasn’t exactly sure how much to reveal. After that encounter with the receptionist at the Preservation Society, he wasn’t so sure how most “proper” people would react to his… Wellsian background. In truth, much of what he had was pilfered - well, he preferred to think of it as <i>scavenged</i>, gathered along the way from various places in Wellington Wells - a disused payphone box here, the bottom of some stranger’s couch cushions there, perhaps the occasional buried treasure, as it were. He hadn’t had much of a choice, he’d told himself. It wasn’t exactly like he could saunter on up to Victoria and ask if he was still entitled to his last earnings, the last of his pay, after what had happened. And going back to his home hadn’t been an option either, of course. He imagined the Bobbies breaking in to raid his old flat after his lapse of employment, just to ensure his apparent “holiday” was permanent, and probably helping themselves to anything they wanted. He had very few physical traces at all of the life he’d lived some 30 years on the island, before he’d went Downer. His specs, his shoes, that one suit that he’d had to ruin to blend in with the wastrels - that was the most of it.<br/>He cleared his throat. “My uncle left them to me. He’d saved them up in this big box in his attic years and years ago, you know. For a… Rainy day, I suppose. Then when he passed, he left it to me in his will.” He gave his best-rehearsed disarming smile.<br/>“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” the man said absently, and there was another pause as he again considered the small pile of coins. For a moment Arthur worried he might turn him down, and a pang of fear rose in his chest at the prospect of not having a roof over his head for the night, of being sent back out on the unfamiliar streets his first evening in a (fairly) unfamiliar town. <br/>“Well, it’s nice to see something new every now and then, innit? This’ll do well enough.” <br/>Arthur felt relief rush over him. “Oh, thank you, sir. I promise, I won’t be any trouble. Just an honest bloke looking for a place to stay.” He straightened and made an awkward half-wave with his hand, a grateful gesture.<br/>“Oh, don’t mention it.” He slid the coins towards himself and began dropping them into the till. <br/>“Sorry about that. The banks…” He hesitated. How much had things changed, while he and everyone he knew cloistered themselves up in Wellington Wells, apart from the rest of society? He’d always imagined that life must have not that much different everywhere else. He hadn’t considered the circulation of currency would’ve changed. “The banks <i>do</i> still take them, don’t they? It’s not too much trouble?”<br/>“Trouble?” He raised an eyebrow, and Arthur could’ve kicked himself at once for his choice of small talk. Was he <i>trying </i>to sabotage himself, trying to talk this man out of accepting his payment? He ought to just keep his mouth shut - yes, sir, very well, sir, thank you for not leaving me out on the street to find some other place to stay, with a haze of darkness falling over the city and businesses turning round their “open” signs.<br/>But the man just chortled harmlessly. “No, they still take them. Money is money, innit?”<br/>“Right, then. I’m sure there’ll be no problem.” He forced himself to keep up an air of cheery confidence - of course, he’d had lots of practice with that façade.<br/>“Here’s your key,” the man said, producing the brass key he held out to Arthur. “Room number 4, on the second storey. There’s a WC at the end of the hall - you share it with the others on your floor. There’ll be absolutely no noise after nine PM each night, till six AM the next day. That includes phone calls. Phone’s by the staircase. My number’s on the wall there if you should need it, but it is to be reserved for emergencies <i>only</i>. Alright?”<br/>“Yes, sir. Thank you, again, I really do appreciate you taking me in, at such an, er, late notice, and considering -”<br/>“Right, then. You’re welcome. Go and get some rest now, eh? You look tired. Must be, after all the travel. Where was it you said you’re headed?”<br/>Arthur smiled. “London.”<br/>“Well, best of luck to you. Cheerio.”<br/>Arthur opened his mouth on the impulse to pile on more awkward gratitude, then decided against it, just thankful that the conversation had gone on with hardly a hitch. Maybe things would be alright. A smile and a convincing enough story seemed enough to earn some kind of trust - and any sort of earnest faith and leniency towards him, in comparison to the always-ready-to-turn-on-you-if-they-suspect-the-slightest-subversiveness attitude from most that he experienced as a Downer in Wellington Wells, filled him with cautious hope. With a smile and a nod, he turned on his heel and headed toward the stairs.<br/>His room was modest - small and shabby, with few furnishings but a washbasin in the corner, a solitary chair and small, rickety table, a bar to hang clothing from - but it was perfectly comfortable. He shut the door securely behind himself, set down his bag, and slid off his shoes. There were still many things to sort out - money, for one thing. He knew he would quickly exhaust what he had buying the necessities for his new life on the Mainland, and he would need to find a way to get some more eventually, if he wanted to continue having a roof over his head. Unless he wanted to resort to “scavenging” again. <br/>Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel unreasonably satisfied with the day. He had an endpoint again, some concrete next step to hone in on, all the way across the country. He began to unbutton his suit, which by this point, in spite of his work at the Donahues’ house, had begun to look perhaps a touch threadbare. He resolved to make it a priority to see about getting a new one first thing the next morning. It would be nice, he thought, to cast aside that bit of Wellington Wells - to have a fresh start, symbolically. He stripped off the old suit, trying to ignore the bruises that dappled his skin - unpleasant reminders that would soon enough be gone, he told himself - and slid under the covers, the firm bed under his back made more comfortable than it really was by the exhaustion that even his time with Martha and her family couldn’t quite shake. Perhaps he’d carry it with himself until he found Percy. Perhaps he’d carry it with himself for the rest of his life. “To sleep, perchance to dream,” he murmured to himself, his thoughts already drifting off. Where had he heard that again?</p><p>No dreams came this time, however, and, given the nature of Arthur’s dreams lately, that was welcome. It was a heavy, dull sleep, and the next morning, he gathered up his bag and went out to run some errands at the local shops - he picked up a few maps, and then added a bit to the canned provisions he had with himself, marveling at some of the offerings in the general store, things he hadn’t seen in years in Wellington Wells - candy, for one thing, and some spices, and even real, identifiable cuts of meat. None of it was exactly cheap, but it was <i>there</i> all the same. <br/>His last stop was a little tailor shop. The store had been roughly divided into two halves, with a men’s section on one side and a women’s on the other. Arthur considered the suit options - something simple would do, and nothing too expensive. He’d found something in black not too dissimilar to his current attire, a two-piece slim fit with notched lapels, and had begun to browse for a matching overcoat - the weather wasn’t getting any warmer, after all - when something across the room caught his eye. There was a row of wall-mounted shelves containing womens’ shoes, and displayed prominently on one of the middle shelves was a pair of dramatic black heeled boots, the rubber material gleaming impeccably under the store lights.<br/>Funny, that. They seemed so familiar. Where had he seen a pair like those before?<br/>Oh. <i>Sally</i>.<br/><i>No, Arthur, now’s not the time -</i> he told himself. He tried his hardest to push the thought of her away, the memory of those heels in the moonlight - except it wasn’t in the moonlight, was it, he’d met her indoors - yes, indoors, and the contrast of the shoes against the checkered tiled floor, he’d seen in a flash when he was too ashamed to look her in the eye. He wouldn’t let himself think about it too much; it would only add to his precariously leaning dumpster pile of regrets. So far he’d done a good enough job pushing aside most thoughts of her after he’d… left her behind. Back in Wellington Wells.<br/><i>Fuck</i>.<br/>He drew a heavy sigh. He really was a heinous person, wasn’t he?<br/>He told himself it was <i>self-preservation</i>. And, indeed, under his circumstances, it had been hard to think of anything else. Every day was driven by pure survival instinct - and the thought of Percy. Now that he accepted, most of the time, that he wasn’t in constant danger, some of that fog had cleared. But it wasn’t like he had been <i>unaware</i> of what he was doing, nor unaware that he would regret it. He was <i>painfully</i> aware. And yet he still did it.<br/>Despite his best efforts, it was hard to see himself on the “right” side of things. What was Sally going to do, now? Was she still back in Wellington Wells? It seemed rather likely, and quite frankly, Arthur wouldn’t even condemn Clive bloody Birthwhistle to a future in Wellington Wells, if he had a choice in the matter. And in this instance, he may just have had the teensiest bit of choice in the matter. Would anyone else help her escape?   <br/><i>I’m sure she can turn to one of her </i>friends <i>for help. She never needed </i>me. Arthur regretted how bitter he sounded - to himself - as soon as he thought that. <br/>But… But still. If he’d denied her the chance to come with him, and something happened to her… If… If she died in that bloody hellhole, he’d never be able…<br/><i>I’ve got to go back and make things right</i>.<br/>But how could he go back <i>now</i>? <i>Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. Going back to Wellington Wells? That’d be fucking suicide. That Motilene mine looked like it was about to collapse any damn minute. Even if you can go back, what if you end up trapped there? That’d be no good to either of you. And she probably wouldn’t want to hear anything you had to say now anyways. Sometimes, in times like these, you’ve got to make hard decisions, and you’ve got to stick with them once you’ve made them. </i><br/>But did he really want to condemn himself to most likely never knowing what ever happened to the woman that helped pull him through some of the hardest years of his life, that he’d swore to always be the other “Musketeer” to, that in spite of everything, in spite of all the Joy, that he’d never <i>really</i> been able to forget, that he’d always carried a secret hope that maybe...<br/><i>You’ve really lost your mind this time</i>.<br/>He’d really considered it, hadn’t he? He was a breath away from <i>yes</i>. It wasn’t <i>that</i> big of a concession, waiting until the next day to leave. She probably just needed it because… What did she say? Well, he couldn’t remember, but obviously it was a lot to expect her to just pick up and leave right that very minute, when she had her own life, her own flat, there in Wellington Wells. Probably she had things to pack - important things. He hadn’t had the choice himself, when he went off Joy, but if he did? Of course he’d want a chance to get his things in order first. Why couldn’t he have granted her that? <br/><i>Bloody </i>insane. <i>Even if you’d decided to stick by her, why do you think things would have gone any differently? Probably by now they’d have already gone pear-shaped somehow, if you went together.  </i><br/>He’d never been able to say no to her before, had he? What had gone so terribly wrong with him, that he was able to turn her down right then and there, so coldly and so… definitively?<br/>Was he ever going to see her again, now?<br/>He’d never get the chance to tell her…<br/>“I’m sorry.”<br/>The salesman studied Arthur’s agonized expression quizzically. “I was just asking if you were finding everything alright, sir. Can I help you with anything?”<br/>With a detached sort of haste, Arthur gathered up his selections and made the purchases, barely registering the look the man gave him when he’d dumped out a pile of the rarely-circulated currency onto the counter. With the transaction finished, he hurried down the street, so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly bumped into a person or two along the way. All the while, the debate continued on in his head. He’d have himself nearly convinced to go on the absolutely bonkers expedition back to Wellington Wells and try to see Sally once more, and then he would chastise himself for even considering putting himself at such a risk when the chances that he could really change anything seemed so low. He hadn’t even completely settled his mind on turning back around and heading for the bridge even by the time he’d reached the old inn with the intention of checking out.<br/>“Ah, there you are.” The innkeeper sat with crossed arms, looking up at Arthur with a certain… Contempt?<br/>“Er... Yes. I was actually just coming to give you back this.” He fished out the room key from his jacket pocket and set it on the counter. The man snatched it up and hung it back on its assigned nail on the wall. “I’m leaving,” Arthur clarified.<br/>“Oi, don’t be in such a hurry,” he snarled. “Perhaps you’d like to explain to me <i>this</i>?” He threw open a drawer on his side of the desk, it sliding out heavily as though it was weighted by its contents, and from it produced a coin, which he slapped down on the counter accusingly.<br/>“A… Sovereign?” Arthur leaned forward and squinted confusedly at it.<br/>The innkeeper flipped it over and jabbed his finger at the revealed face. “Wellington Wells? <i>In Posterum Cum Gaudio</i>?”<br/><i>Shit shit shit. The emblem! </i>How could he forget that they all were minted with the Wellington Wells emblem on them? Spending money at all those places, he was bound to get caught eventually.<i> Arthur, are you bloody stupid?</i><br/>“What kind of joke money is this? I took your ‘payment’ to the bank this morning. They wouldn’t take it, obviously. Took one close look at it and they got narked with <i>me</i> for wasting their time! If I’d have been wearing my spectacles when you tried to pull this one over on me, maybe I’d have seen it was clearly fake currency.”<br/><i>Regular </i>sovereign are still legal tender in the Mainland. <i>Wellsian </i>sovereign, on the other hand, most certainly not. Apparently. <i>I guess I’m just so used to seeing it, it didn’t even cross my mind. Damn it, I need to be more careful out here!</i><br/>“And don’t even try telling me it’s not. Everyone in that cursed... <i>place </i>is surely dead by now. The whole civilization destroyed, for all what we know. And even if not, <i>their</i> money would never be welcome in my house of honor.”<br/><i>I can’t stay here.</i><br/>“Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself?”<br/><i>I’ve got to get out of here I’ve got to -</i><br/>“Listen, lad. Maybe you’ve just made a sorry mistake, trying to prank and swindle me out of my hard earned fares. I’m going to give you <i>sixty seconds</i> to give me the <i>real</i> money to settle your balance for last night’s stay. Or I’m calling the police and telling them I’ve a thief on my hands.” He picked up the telephone receiver, his finger held tersely on the rotary.<br/>“Right. You’ve caught me.” Arthur held up his hands. “Let me just go get my money - It’s just around the block here… In my car, which I definitely…”<br/>He swung open the front door and let it slam shut behind him. “...do have.” <br/><i>Run, Arthur, fucking run!</i><br/>With the pure fuel of adrenaline gushing though his veins, Arthur took off in a sprint, not able to afford the worry of who he might alert by doing so. He was confident that he could gain enough ground that even if the innkeeper made good on his threat right away, it wouldn’t matter… He hoped.<br/><i>The police probably have cars here, don’t they?</i><br/>Arthur ran faster.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Who's in the Strawberry Patch With Sally?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A little bit of music references in this one, since I have a big weakness for using lyrics as a literary device :^) so this might not be the first time I do so in this fic!<br/>Also, I wanted to add a quick warning here that I make reference to what Arthur's father did to Sally. There's no graphic details or description, just Arthur's reaction to it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>One day happy, one day sad</i><br/><i>Feeling good, feeling bad</i><br/><i>In anger, words are spoken</i><br/><i>Then haste, a heart is broken</i>”<br/>	Tony Orlando and Dawn, “Who’s in the Strawberry Patch With Sally?”</p><p>“I - <i>really</i> - can’t keep doing this,” Arthur breathed to himself. He’d managed to keep up his sprint for a rather impressive stretch of time initially, but his stamina was giving out. He’d been needing to slow his pace to recover more often and for greater periods of time the further he got from Ilfracombe. By this point he could barely keep up even a light jog for a few seconds. “Dear God. I think I might just keel over and die.”<br/>His lungs were burning. He’d bolted out of the town by the first route available to him, which had dumped him out onto a long expanse of country road. It was mostly flat, green fields spilling out on either side, which made him feel exposed, and spongy grass on the bottom of his dress shoes, which added a certain extra discomfort to every step. Up just ahead, though, the right side of the road was beginning to be closed in by more substantial forest.<br/><i>I need to stop</i>. He had kept in constant motion, not risking losing ground, although he hadn’t noticed any evidence that he was being pursued. A few cars had passed him by on this road, and he’d tensed up every time, but they didn’t seem to be looking for him. <i>Perhaps that fellow didn’t call the police after all</i>?<br/>Arthur snuck off into the cover of the trees and the brush, sitting, or more like collapsing, on the ground. He closed his eyes and saw red.<br/><i>No… He seemed pretty upset. I’m sure he’s called them. I’m just not sure how hard they’re still trying to find me</i>.<br/>What he’d done hadn’t been <i>that</i> bad, really. It hadn’t even been intentional. Still, he’d been chased out of towns and barely escaped with his life for much more minor offenses.<br/>The unfortunate thing about non-Wellies, he thought, was that they wouldn’t be so quick to forget about your existence just a few minutes after you’d left their field of view. They won’t just pop a Joy and forget all about whatever you did to upset them so.<br/>Perhaps they would decide to cut their losses, soon enough, if he didn’t turn up promptly. But he couldn’t be overly sure about when that might happen, even if things seemed alright now. If he was caught, he might very well be past the point of being able to talk his way out of the situation, and then he supposed that, at the very least, they’d have him locked up. After having worked so hard for his freedom, the thought was terrifying. Not to mention that it would put a halt to his search for Percy.<br/>So what was he going to do?<br/>Once he’d rested long enough that the burning in his body had quieted to more of a dull, heavy ache, he took out one of the maps he’d bought and considered it, trying to figure out his approximate location, using what he could remember of his adrenaline-fueled flight. <i>Oh, brilliant</i>. <i>Sure enough, London is still where it was the last time I peeked at this. That is, on the other bloody end of the country. Wow, look here. Only about…</i> He made a quick calculation, using the map’s guide. <i>200 more miles to go.</i><br/><i>Two-hundred miles.</i><br/>He had to face it: even though he’d relied on his feet to get him everywhere in Wellington Wells, traveling some 200 miles by foot wasn’t exactly the most appealing option. Wellington Wells was small enough that it was reasonable to walk wherever one needed to go - most people didn’t have cars, and the tube, of course, had been disused years ago. Most Wellies probably didn’t see the need to travel any great distances frequently. The buses in the Parade must’ve been the only public transport left, and it was more fashion (really, conformity) than anything else to use them. To think he’d relied on them to get to and from work every day! No wonder his lungs hurt now.<br/>But it wasn’t just his overexertion and the fact that the distance ahead of him felt overwhelming. It was that he’d managed to become - well, he supposed - a sort of minor fugitive, in his first week on the Mainland. Until he’d left Ilfracombe far behind, he felt a strong urge to keep moving... just not by foot. He would be too slow on his own, and perhaps too easy to track down, he reasoned. <br/>With his illegal sovereign coins, he couldn’t afford bus, car, or - <i>heh</i> - train, but… if he played his cards right, he might just be able to get a ride for free.<br/>He would take on a false identity for his trip, and travel in disguise, just in case his description had been released to the public. He changed into the boiler suit that he’d still been keeping in his bag. He paused to examine his reflection in one of his metal scraps he had around, and then, with a little hesitation, decided to take off his glasses. He decided that the vulnerability he felt not being able to see properly was worth his ensured stealth. People always said he looked like a different person without his specs. <i>And after all, I’m not going to be the one driving</i>.<br/>Stepping back out to the side of the road, Arthur put on a friendly grin, faced the direction of coming traffic, and held out his thumb.<br/>And waited.<br/><i>Look, there comes a car. Don’t look like a murderer, and maybe they’ll pick you up</i>.<br/>But the young couple inside passed by without a second glance. <i>That’s fine. I’ll get the next one.</i><br/>A second vehicle, carrying bales of hay, manned by who must have been a farmer, seemed to hesitate upon seeing him and Arthur almost thought he was going to stop - but the man’s smile thinned and he seemed to think better of it.<br/><i>I understand. I wouldn’t pick me up either.</i><br/>Then there weren’t any cars in sight for a great while. He felt kind of funny, trying to hold the smile and outstretched hand, and he slowly let go of them. Arthur considered himself a patient man, but his faith in what he’d thought to be a clever plan had begun to waver. <i>This is pure genius, Arthur. Let’s just jump onboard with the first stranger we find, potential lunatics and overzealous civilian police-radio eavesdroppers be damned, shall we? I’m sure general life experience has taught us nothing bad at all could happen. Out on a deserted country road, fleeing from the law. In the middle of fuck-all nowhere, in a country where just about everybody apparently hates me and… Hold on, that sounds like a - oh thank God</i>...<br/>He waved eagerly when the stylish green car - some variety of Jaguar - slowed to a halt and when the man behind the wheel rolled down the window and asked, “Where to?” he felt the pieces of his plan clicking into place.<br/>“London. Any bit helps!”<br/>The lad smiled. “Well, in that case, I can assist. Come on, then.”</p><p>The driver, who introduced himself as Horace, was a young man, smartly but casually dressed in a wool turtleneck and khaki trousers that matched the color of his neatly styled blonde hair - collegiate somehow, with a certain relaxed, suave sort of affect as he gestured and talked to Arthur, one hand loosely guiding the steering wheel. “And you are?”<br/>“Ernest. Ernest Adamson,” Arthur declared. “Pleased to meet you.”<br/>“And how come you’re headed to London?”<br/>“Well, you see, I’ve never been, and I’ve always wanted to see all the modern marvels of city life, you know. But more than anything, I want to go to the zoo and see the, er, eller-phants.” He drew the last word out strategically in a way he thought would sound quaint - nobody would suspect any ill of the man that mangles “elephant” like it were some exotic loanword. It was easy for him - all too easy - to pretend to be innocent, to imitate the sort of voices he heard from worker Wellies, in places like Haworth Labs, so as to take on a persona to match with his attire. Arthur was perhaps having a little too much fun putting on this little disarming never-left-his-hometown act.<br/>“Oh, really?” Horace smirked. He seemed to be getting a kick out of the hitchhiker he’d decided to pick up, as though he was looking forward later to telling his friends about his <i>positively mad</i> adventure earlier and having a good laugh about it. He looked like he felt quietly superior. <br/>He continued: “Well. I’ve been before. It’s alright, I suppose, if you’re into the smell of manure and crowds of snotty children. If it’s your first time in the city, I could give some recommendations of all the really swinging spots.”<br/>“Oh? Are you familiar with the area?”<br/>“Yes, I go to school there. King’s College. Actually, I’m on my way back there, now. I was just down the road visiting my aunt and uncle on my weekend off, but now - pity me - it’s back to class.”<br/>“Yeah? I knew you seemed like one ‘a them sharp lads. What do you study there?”<br/>“Oh, engineering. I want to build bridges someday.” <br/>“Engineering? That’s what I studied too.” <i>That much, at least, was true</i>.<br/>He raised an eyebrow. “You went to university?”<br/>“Yes. But, ah, well, I decided I wasn’t quite cut out for it.” He had always sort of had a knack for working with his hands, for putting things together and figuring out how they worked. That’s more what he had thought engineering, as a discipline, would be like. But all the specifics, all the more complicated math and science, had frustrated him. Percy probably could have made it alright in that - Sally, too, he thought. How ironic that - as far as he knew, anyways - he’d been the only one to get a proper chance at a higher education, and he worried that he’d squandered it, by going into journalism instead. He’d always been more inclined towards working with language. He’d kept his thoughts in a journal, growing up, and often favoured the library...<br/>Sometimes he wondered why he’d chosen engineering, then, in the first place. He supposed, really, that he’d wanted to make his father happy. After he’d lost Percy, and then his mum, and then Sally... his father, despite how difficult things had been with him, seemed the only person he really had left in the world. He’d done his best, for as long as he could, to try and hold that relationship together. Shame it didn’t really work out, after all that. “Went out and got myself a job fixing lights instead, didn’t I?” He smiled wistfully. <br/>“Well, there’s a right job for everybody. Someone’s got to do it, eh?” With his expectations for Arthur - well, this character of Ernest - unquestioned, he looked back at the road.<br/>“That’s quite right, that is.”</p><p>Their conversation trailed off to a comfortable silence. Arthur allowed himself to relax, quietly pleased with himself. <i>He’ll never suspect a thing of me</i>. <i>I think I might just be out of the woods.</i><br/>He turned his head to the passenger side window, watching the rural landscape go by. He was finally seeing some evidence that there had been a war here on the Mainland, once. Fenced in with barbed wire was what appeared to be some holdover of German occupation, a dilapidated building that must have had some military use in the past, which nobody had yet bothered to tear down.Here and there, there were some fields which appeared disused, the farmhouses reduced to rubble and their surroundings peppered with old junk. Rusting and embedded in the earth, he happened to spot what he swore was a German dud bomb, just like the ones that littered the Garden District.      <br/>The memory brought back was strangely… tactile. Most of what he could usually retrieve from his memory seemed to be sounds - the voices of people, sometimes with the occasional visual. But he could <i>feel</i> the prickle of new grass against the backs of his calves, the wet, perfumey smell of the first spring flowers hiding ever so subtly behind the waves of stale cigarette smoke which wafted over his face in a gentle breeze, and there he was, laying on his back, looking up at a night sky of many years ago.<br/>“<i>I just wish Dad would stop bloody bothering me about everything.” </i>He sighed, and watched Sally turn her face, bathed in the velvety darkness, towards him. <br/>“<i>Yeah. Me too</i>.”<br/>“<i>I mean it’s just gotten worse and worse, lately. Nothing I do is ever good enough. My marks are slipping, he grouses, and when I come home with glowing reports from my teachers, then he’ll find something else to complain about. ‘</i>Well, you wouldn’t have had any trouble in the first place if you didn’t spend so much time larking about these days. You spend too much time with Sally. You need to be thinking of the future.’ <i>How’s he know I’m not?</i>”<br/>“<i>Ha. What else is new? None of them get it. You should’ve heard the things my mum used to nag me about. Just because the world they knew is gone, they take it out on us.”</i><br/>“<i>But then that’s only half of the time. Then other times, it’s as if he hardly cares at all. Like I’m not even there. It was better, it used to be, when Mum could sort of... balance him out, pull him out of his moods. But now…”</i><br/>“<i>Your Dad’s probably having a hard time, too, with your mum being so poorly. But I wouldn’t expect him to talk about it.”</i><br/>“<i>Yeah. I suppose that’s true.” </i>He sighed again. “<i>Well… At least I’m grateful he let us take you in. Otherwise, I… Well… Well, we wouldn’t have gotten to… Spend so much time together.”</i><br/>“<i>Me too.</i>” She smiled weakly, hesitating.“<i>Although, Arthur? Have you ever noticed that your dad… He seems to, whenever you’re not around… Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m a girl, but I don’t know, it’s… Strange.”</i><br/>“<i>What</i>?”<br/>“<i>Oh, nevermind. I think I’m just imagining things</i>.” She shook her head, seemingly uncomfortable with the topic she’d brought up, wanting to change the subject. She quickly rolled over onto her side, facing Arthur and propping her head up on her hand. “<i>Hey, why are you still wearing your school uniform</i>?”<br/>“<i>Well - I - I happen to - what do you mean, you want me to take it off</i>?”<br/>Sally burst into laughter.<br/>“<i>What’s so funny</i>?” Under cover of darkness, Arthur’s face went a deep red.<br/>“<i>Your voice cracked</i>,” she teased, catching her breath. “<i>Did I really scare you that much</i>?”<br/>“<i>What? No! No, I just… Was surprised, that’s all</i>.”<br/>She shook her head, offering him the last of the cigarette she was holding. “<i>Here, have it. It’s almost gone</i>.” He took it from her in embarrassed silence.<br/>“<i>Though, was that really your first thought? That I wanted you to take it off? How come that’s what your mind jumped to?”</i><br/>“<i>I don’t know! What was I supposed to think</i>?”<br/>“<i>Well, I don’t know. It was just a question, that’s all. Whether or not I wanted your uniform on you or off you was completely out of the picture.”</i><br/>“<i>But... Do you?” </i>He’d surprised himself at how bold he’d been to ask. But then again, Sally was almost the only person in the world that he ever felt truly comfortable around. <br/>She crossed her arms over her chest. “<i>Hm.”</i><br/>“<i>Well, Sal</i>?”<br/>She didn’t answer. Instead she started whistling an old little Great War tune - one that the Hastings household often played, on a heavy, old shellac record. An American 78. Something his mum had bought on a whim just because he shared first names with the singer, he thought. <i>Look, sweetheart, it’s another Arthur, just like you. See? A-R-T-H-U-R.</i> <br/>...<i>It’s a long way to Berlin but we’ll get there, and I’m on my way, by heck…</i><br/>Arthur watched her for a little while, curious, and still blushing inside, wondering if she was going to say anything more. By the time she did, he was looking up at the stars again.<br/>“<i>You know, I wonder about them sometimes.</i>”<br/>“<i>Hm</i>?”<br/>“<i>Them. The bombs.” </i>She pointed across him at the dud bomb beside them, her arm grazing the front of his shirt. “<i>I wonder if the Germans know they’re duds when they throw them. Or... If they think they’re loaded, and think about how many lives they have the power to end, just like that. How do you think that feels? ...I wonder if they imagine us as people, all our different lives and personalities and things. Or if they just try to forget and go on following orders.”</i><br/>Arthur considered this. “<i>They’d probably have to not think about it. But it would come back to them. You can’t keep the past away forever. It’ll keep coming back to haunt you, eventually. I think.”</i><br/>“<i>I wonder if they ever imagine two people like us, out on a starry night, dreaming about getting out of this place. Arthur, don’t laugh, but... Do you ever wish one of them would find us and just… carry us away, somewhere?” </i><br/>He shook his head. “<i>I’m not laughing. That sounds… nice.” </i>His fingers played with the grass idly, pulling out a few unassuming strands.<i> “I hope, in ten years, we’ll be somewhere nice, remembering how much we used to bother about everything and, y’know, laughing at ourselves, over it all.</i>”<br/>She frowned. “<i>That’s a long time.</i>” She pulled herself into a sitting position and shivered, glancing uneasily again at the bomb. “<i>Every one of those is a life, or lives, that could have been ended, just like that, easy as blowing out a bloody candle. Don’t you ever think about how close we are to… That, every night, we could go to bed and not be there the next morning?”</i><br/>“<i>What are we going to do, Sally</i>?”<br/>“<i>I don’t know</i>.” Her breath caught in her throat. She was half-on top of him now, brushing his cheek with her thumb. “<i>I don’t know</i>.”<br/>He remembered the warm softness of her lips against his. The passion aching with grief and fear, and yet the elated feeling in his stomach, the butterflies, an endlessness of possibilities and an assurance that he could take on anything. And the funny sort of innocence about the whole thing, somehow.<br/>The realization ebbed into awareness gently, then all at once.<br/><i>Oh, for God’s sake. He loved Sally, didn’t he?</i><br/><i>He still loved Sally</i>.       <br/>Back in the present, Horace spoke. “You mind if I put on some music?” He asked idly, though he was already adjusting the dial.<br/>Arthur shook his head. “Go ahead.”<br/>A voice crackled in through the car speakers. It was an old song, one he remembered, in other renditions, from before the War. It was funny, wasn’t it, hearing something again that wasn’t saccharine pop - anything that threatened to give space to glum feelings?<br/>“Here’s Michael Holliday” - the deejay had introduced - confronting Arthur with the question:<br/>“<i>I wonder who’s kissing her now?</i><br/><i>Wonder who’s showing her how</i><br/><i>Wonder who’s looking into her eyes,</i><br/><i>Breathing sighs, telling lies?</i>”<br/><i>I do wonder</i>, he thought, miserably. <i>Probably some sorry twit who… who’s… probably an awful lot nicer than me</i>. He wondered if she ever shared the same things that she’d shared with him. If they ever laid in the grass together on a clear spring night.<br/>Well, it wasn’t like he reasonably could’ve expected her to hold off on behalf of him, some-fellow-she’d-known-but-that-was-a-long-time-ago. Why would she? <br/>Still, even after everything he’d said to her in anger, part of him had expected she’d still come back, in the weeks and months after she’d fled from their house - just like he’d half-expected Percy to come walking through that door again. Part of him, perhaps, felt sorry.<br/><i>But he’d had every right to be upset. </i>At least… That’s how he’d always thought about it. It had been a horrific, mortifying thing to see. He’d come home earlier than usual, that day, from school. His father had told him, that morning, that Sally was sick, and she’d be staying home. He’d worried about her all day - the thought of losing her couldn’t stop coming to his mind, after his mum had lost her long battle so recently. And what he’d found, after hearing the dull sounds of movement in the bedroom that had made his blood run cold - the sight of <i>that</i>, on the very bed that had barely gone cold for lack of his mum lying there… It came as a cold slap to his face. He didn’t know what to do with the sharp pain of his heart shattering. All he knew was what it had looked to be, or what it had felt like it was, in that moment. It felt like the worst betrayal anyone could have ever done to anyone.<br/><i>Almost as bad as tricking your brother into going to Germany in your place, because you were too much of a coward to go yourself</i>? <i>That bad, Arthur</i>?<br/>He exhaled heavily. Reach as deeply as he might, he had a hard time conjuring up the old anger towards Sally that he’d held onto for so long.<br/>In truth, he’d misplaced that anger. Had he known better, had he not been so… <i>bloody naive</i>, he’d have known who to really be livid with. But how could he have held all that resentment when he still had to live with his father, the last person he’d had left? His father never talked about it directly. He seemed to think Arthur overreacted about the whole thing, apparently unrepentant. But he’d implied Sally somehow was at fault, some sort of… temptress, corrupting him. Arthur had went along with that if it would keep the peace between himself and his father, which worked, for a few months, anyways.<br/><i>God, what a real treasure of a man my old dad was. I hope I haven’t grown up to be just as abhorrent.</i><br/><i>I could’ve run away. I’d have been old enough by then, to do that, if I was determined enough. Could’ve taken Sally</i> <i>and then we’d have both been free of that piece of work.</i><br/><i>Yeah, that’s all well and good to think now</i>. <i>But I wouldn’t have been able see that option under those circumstances</i>. <i>Even if it had kind of gone to shit, my home was still all I knew.</i><br/>“<i>You’re the last bloody person that should be off his Joy,” </i>Sally had said, when they’d reunited and he’d blown everything. Maybe she had been right. Maybe he wasn’t made for remembering. For regretting.<br/><i>Still, I’d rather suffer like this than cruise the rest of my life away, snug as a bug on a drug.</i><br/>Horace reached for the radio dial, making an exaggerated gagging sound. “What were they thinking? That song’s, what, <i>five </i>years old by now. I’ve got to find us a station that’s a bit more… current.” He sighed. “I wish I could find a station that plays Nick Lightbearer. Not even the pirate stations have caught onto him yet.”<br/>“Nick Lightbearer?”<br/>“Oh? You’ve heard of him?” Horace sounded impressed.<br/>“Oh, no, no. Nick Lightbearer, you said? Never heard the name. Who’s that?”<br/>“He’s this bloke from that island. You know…” He lowered his voice, as if he was saying something delightfully scandalous. “<i>Wellington Wells</i>.” <i>Why’s everyone got to say it like that</i>?<br/>Arthur blinked. “Really?”<br/>“Yeah. Nobody really knows anything about him. He’s pretty underground. You know how it is, everything is really locked down over there. But some of his records managed to get out into circulation, somehow. Made into bootleg copies. ‘The Unicorn Song,’ that’s a good one… I follow his whole <i>oeuvre</i> - that just means, by the way, all his songs. It’s fab stuff, just brilliant. Ahead of its time, I might say. Now there are other bands doing the same type of stuff, but Nick was doing it first.”<br/>He cleared his throat, trying to keep his expression neutral. “So he’s popular in London, is he?” <br/>“Yes, all the rage. One has got some serious cachet if one can get a copy to play at parties right now. I think the fact that he has such an… intriguing background, makes people talk about him all the more. Everybody’s just dying to know more.” He grinned. “But I’m more interested in the <i>music</i>, myself.”<br/><i>I thought all Wellies were supposed to be “dirty traitors”?</i><br/>Arthur managed to chuckle. “Well, this new music all you lot listen to these days never fails to astound me, I’ll tell you.”<br/>Well, what do you know? <i>Nick Lightbearer</i>, Arthur thought. <i>Wellington Wells’ biggest export. Well, only export, really</i>.<br/>He turned back to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass. Up overhead, a plane passed by.       <br/>He loved Sally. And all he could do about that was think about it, as each passing minute carried him further and further away from her, zooming down a country road in some posh kid’s car as the well-wrought wheels clicked and bumped arrhythmically with the machine pace of progress.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Operation Prodigal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I set out to write my next chapter for this, and by the time I got done with it and took a proper look at what I had written, I was astonished to see how long it ended up being. Everything that I'd planned out for it had taken more space than I'd expected. As I started editing I decided it was best to split it into two chapters, 5 and 6. Since I just have a little editing left to do on 6, expect another update very shortly!<br/>In this chapter, I draw a little from my experience interning at a government archives - although not the particular one Arthur goes to here. So I've used my imagination with it a bit of course.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although leaflets at the entrance of the Public Record Office had boasted that the government organization was “committed to making important historical records available to the public,” Arthur found working with them a bit more difficult than he’d hoped. That is to say, there were certain restrictions. Some time after Horace dropped him off in London and he’d found the huge, Neo-Gothic building that he hoped would contain the information he sought, he’d had to go from desk to desk in the main lobby, filling out forms to receive clearance to enter the room he wished to browse. This proved a difficult task in itself, seeing as there was much information, as simple as permanent residence and phone number, which he’d had to simply forge and hope they just wouldn’t notice. And at the end of the process, he was rewarded with a small paper badge, approving him as a <i>Journalist</i>. As he pinned the flimsy thing to his jacket, he couldn’t help but feel himself swell with an absurd sort of pride.<br/>
The room he’d been directed into was sort of in between being a library and an archives, as, in addition to record boxes containing information on some of the holdings - since unauthorized people weren’t allowed to visit the archival stacks directly - there were some shelves with various ready-to-read secondary-source documents curated, it seemed, to general public interest. In other words, Arthur, with his background in a certain particular sort of archives, could recognize that something about it seemed a little surface-level. If the Department of Archives, Printing, and Recycling had had something like this open to the public, the full extent of it would have been something like the shelves of government-edited reports on historical issues here in the research room. That is, if everything was significantly redacted, if not outright lies.<br/>
Still, he set himself onto the task at hand, working diligently and thoroughly to look at anything at all that seemed relevant. He’d found a few interesting things, so far. The first he’d put his hand on in the meagre section dedicated to Wellington Wells was a copy of a government publication dated to 1950.</p><p><i>Whatever Happened to the Lost Children of Wellington Wells</i>?</p><p><i>It has been nearly a year since reports first emerged revealing the shocking wartime sacrifice made by the citizens of Wellington Wells, the island city-state off the Bristol Channel with a history dating back to the Tudor Period. When the public first learned that this insular territory had, for reasons that remain unclear, distinguished itself by surrendering its children to the occupying German forces, thousands of concerned citizens had led a public outcry, calling for an investigation to recover these innocent children</i>.<br/>
<i>Though the spreading of the news had been delayed by the shroud of secrecy that continues to surround this most singular case, the concession in question on the part of Wellington Wells’ leadership actually took place mid-1947</i>. <i>By the end of July that year, the research of our most devoted investigators tells us, it is assumed that all Wellsian children under the age of thirteen would have been vacated completely from the territory, ostensibly bound for Germany. This means that the oldest children sent would today scarcely have turned fifteen, with some among the displaced, it is thought, possibly as young as only three years old. With the time since their departure growing longer and longer, more and more voices within our nation have been asking, what has happened to the children of Wellington Wells, and where are they now? Rest assured, the search still continues just as ardently as when it was first begun, ten months ago, and is far from being abandoned.</i></p><p>
  <i>Here is what we know thus far:</i><br/>
<i>The parents of Wellington Wells gave up their children voluntarily at the threats of their German occupiers, with no indications yet that suggest any resistance on their part, but it is unclear the extent to which the city-state’s government has mounted any organized search and recovery efforts. Though offers to provide aid have been made through all available channels, efforts on our side of the shore have been forestalled by ongoing communication difficulties with Wellsian officials. In spite of this, our Joint Intelligence Committee promptly established its own investigation, while still reserving the possibility for future collaboration with Wellington Wells itself, once these difficulties have been overcome.</i><br/>
<i>Intelligence is developing with each passing day, and while negotiations with the German government have reached an impasse, our experts have speculated upon several possibilities regarding the German motivation for seizing these children. It is thought that the children may have been recruited into factory work creating armaments and other wartime goods, their smaller hands lending an advantage in operating certain machinery, or that they may have been trained as actors for domestic propaganda usage. However, there is little cause for alarm at this still-early stage: the consensus is that they most likely have simply been held for matters of bargaining, the hostages kept safe and sound in order to command a ransom. </i><br/>
<i>The rumours that Wellington Wells may not be the sole area of the nation in which such a concession was made are as of yet still under investigation, but it is assured that their decision remains an overwhelming anomaly among all of occupied Britain during wartime.</i><br/>
<i>Concerned citizens can be assured that all possible efforts are being made to recover these lost children. All involved in the effort have been greatly touched by the hundreds of letters we have received offering to donate food and toys for when the children are found, not to mention the inquiries from those generous enough to consider opening their doors to provide homes to these victims of reprehensible German demands, should it become a necessary option.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Prime Minister Clement Attlee has offered the following words: </i><br/>
<i>“We denounce unequivocally the disgraceful acts of Wellington Wells and are deeply ashamed that part of our commonwealth would choose themselves over the innocent children dependent on their care. When German forces had, in certain other instances, petitioned occupied territories for the seizure of their children, these attempts were rightfully met with outrage and coordinated resistance sufficient to repel the enemy until victory was won. Though the past years of war have tested the resolve at the heart of all the citizens of The United Kingdom, I am proud to say that the vast majority have never fallen to temptation to put the preservation of self over the protection of those under our care. Our Joint Intelligence Committee is dedicated toward the aim of righting this grievous mistake as soon as possible by locating the children and bringing them home. We shall not cease until we realize this objective.”</i>
</p><p>It had been hard to read such condemnations, not to mention the speculations about the childrens’ fate - but Arthur had steeled himself for that as soon as he’d walked into the great magisterial building. If he was seeking the truth, he had to be prepared for anything.<br/>
In spite of how concerned this publication had made all the involved parties sound, it seemed the government had gathered rather little concrete information. Still, he remained optimistic. It was, after all, from 1950. Surely the government would have made leaps and bounds in fourteen years.<br/>
Also laying on his desk was another secondary source document he’d pulled out, which, filed next to the previous official statement, added another piece to the whole troubling affair.  </p><p>
  <i>Summary of Communications Between Secretary of State for the Affairs of Wellington Wells and the Wellington Wells Executive Committee, 1949-1954   </i>
</p><p><i>In the wake of the news of Wellington Wells’ surrender of its children to Germany, Sir Malcolm Lymington, Secretary of State for the Affairs of Wellington Wells, made a series of efforts to establish communication with the city-state regarding the event in question. The following is a summary of the communications that transpired thenceforth, meticulously distilled from copies of official correspondence and oral testimony.</i><br/>
<i>On February 9, 1949, after said reports had been examined and found potentially credulous, Lymington sought to confirm them with the Executive Committee of Wellington Wells (this being the name of the governing body which, as Lymington had discovered, came to replace the city-state’s original governance during wartime occupation.) “It has recently come to our attention that a report has emanated regarding the involvement of Wellington Wells in a certain “Authority Project.” Should we risk rashly believing a false report of such a serious nature, we wish to hear from your leadership directly regarding the veracity of this claim,” he wrote. Though he exercised what he believed to be “the greatest of sensitivity in addressing such a delicate topic,” he did not receive a response, and his further telegrams and attempted phone calls were met with no answer, until nearly the end of the month. On February 27, Lymington received his brief response. “We would like to completely and unequivocally deny any and all base and incendiary rumors that Wellington Wells has conceded to the demands of the Germans, in 1947 or any year before or previous,” it read.</i><br/>
<i>Such assurance was short-lived. By April, when the investigation efforts of a team of journalists who had travelled undercover to Wellington Wells exposed a ream of documents including registers of the children who had been selected for the project as well as classified correspondence with German forces in arranging the specifics of the surrender, which had proven the rumors beyond any reasonable suspicion, Lymington tried once again. “We, the legislature of The United Kingdom, wish not to bring shame upon the name of Wellington Wells nor to inflict any punishments for what we trust was an act only resorted to in absolute desperation during the ravages of a long and harsh wartime, but to provide assistance and strength as we stand by your citizens against the enemy. We would like to inquire as to what efforts have already been made in negotiating the return of the children, that we may add to them. We hereby request all information which you may be able to provide, in order to assist us in righting that which the circumstances of history have made wrong,” Lymington wrote in one April 17 letter.</i><br/>
<i>Again, despite repeated contact efforts, Lymington did not receive an answer after a substantial period of time. Having served in his position for nearly a decade, Lymington testified that he found this hesitancy most “unusual,” given the previous history of open, forthcoming, and continual cooperation in all negotiations he had previously facilitated. Hoping to overcome the barrier to productive communication that perhaps resulted from such impersonal means of contact, Lymington attempted to schedule an appointment to meet with the Committee personally. There was, again, no response to his request. Finally, he decided it would be necessary to attempt to make contact directly, accompanied by a team of diplomats. </i><br/>
<i>He found the reception officers at the point of entry, on May 1, to have treated him with “undue suspicion,” which he found “disgraceful” after - himself having been born in the city-state - a long history of diplomatic and pleasure travel to and from there. After painstakingly verifying his credentials, they allowed him entry and, after still more negotiation, he secured himself an audience with the Executive Committee - alone. He was driven to the headquarters, he recalled, in a vehicle with “darkened windows,” and was not allowed to move about the city freely.</i><br/>
<i>Finally, Lymington testified, they were receptive to cooperation, although they “strangely refused to ever admit to having sent the children, nor even allude to the event specifically.” He put forth an offer which he had previously been advised upon, in which, as an additional incentive and figurative “olive branch,” modest monetary assistance to help Wellington Wells rebuild (though the exact state of the city-state remains unknown for obvious reasons, aerial photographs taken at the time indicated significant damage) was extended, if the Executive Committee would agree to work together with the government of their mother country. “They accepted graciously, and I was most hopeful that this would signify a new direction for Operation Prodigal,” Lymington remembered.</i><br/>
<i>The Executive Committee did provide assistance in the Joint Intelligence Committee’s attempts to communicate with Germany, and from the period between 1950-1952, communications mediated by Lymington were reasonably timely, cooperative, and productive. Still, efforts were forestalled for a long time by an uncooperative Germany, until the help of the Soviet Union was able to be enlisted. With the additional pressure, Germany disclosed critical information to the whereabouts of the missing children. In July of 1953, nearly six years since the surrender of the children, Lymington rushed to deliver the news to the Executive Committee. </i><br/>
<i>On August 1st of the same, their answer came in the form of a brief telegram. “WE THANK YOU FOR THE OFFER STOP HOWEVER WE ARE NOT INTERESTED AT THIS TIME IN RECEIVING ANY FURTHER INFORMATION REGARDING THE STATUS OF OPERATION PRODIGAL STOP</i>”<br/>
<i>“I was - and remain to this day - positively shocked, and indeed stunned, by this answer. I had expected a great rejoicing from them at being a crucial step closer to returning those innocent souls who had been separated from their homes for so long. Nothing could have been more perplexing to me than this complete and apparent indifference, after all the years of work everyone had put forth,” Lymington stated.</i><br/>
<i>In the meantime, as the Joint Intelligence Committee debated its next action, more troubling rumors had begun to circulate, which, after Wellington Wells had faded out of the foreground of public consciousness for those few years, reignited sentiments of outrage. </i><br/>
<i>Urged by the exigency of the moment in which he found himself, Lymington desperately attempted to find any means of communication with any leadership in Wellington Wells that would be able to clear up this apparent misunderstanding, and, hopefully, resolve the issue. After much trouble, he learned of a certain Victoria Byng, who had apparently served a prominent role in the Authority Project and worked closely with Wellington Wells’ leadership, and he was able to obtain a phone number at which she was able, to his relief, to be reached.</i><br/>
<i>No recordings or transcripts exist of the conversation, but Lymington affirms that he remembers it clearly. Byng, he recalls, was “a very well-spoken, reassuring, and diplomatic voice over the phone, but there was a most unexplainable effusiveness to her demeanor, under the circumstances. She seemed completely unbothered by and detached from everything she said, no matter how troubling it seemed to my ears.”</i><br/>
<i>“I broached the matter of the rampant rumors that were then circulating, the notion that children who had refused to cooperate had been restrained by the Germans in… the most uncivil of ways, regardless of their condition, that a small number of children who had been hidden to avoid being taken had been executed by the Germans, and told her that the citizens of Great Britain would be most grateful if she was able disprove such stories. She actually laughed and then answered, serenely, that such ‘silly gossip’ was ‘completely unfounded,’ that ‘no such things had ever occurred.’”</i><br/>
<i>However, when he pressed her, she could give no specific details to support her claim. Lymington tried to prise out from her why he had received such a telegram as he had from the Executive Committee, but she was evasive. Finally, he asked outright why Wellington Wells was unconcerned with knowing the possible whereabouts of the children.</i><br/>
<i>“‘Because,’” she said, he recalls, “‘everybody here in Wellington Wells today, we’ve moved past all the troubles of the war. We are all happy now; we have left the past behind us. There is no longer any need for the so-called valuable information grounded in a time so long ago.”</i><br/>
<i>“But do you not feel any regrets for sending the children to the enemy?” Lymington asked her. He recalls that there was a brief pause, the only hint of any hesitation he ever sensed from her.</i><br/>
<i>“There comes a time when every person must do his or her duty, and we simply answered our calling. We must now look forwards,” was her purportedly blithe response.</i><br/>
<i>“Forgive me, but I simply fail to understand why none of this seems to trouble you at all.” </i><br/>
<i>“I could just as well ask why,” she is said to have replied, “with all the respect due to you, Sir Lymington, you cannot simply let go of the past and let yourself be happy now and again, rather than be caught up in all these obscure issues of the past.”</i><br/>
<i>After all of his probing and finding no satisfactory answers from her, Lymington admits that he “may have lost [his] patience.” He quoted his final words to her as: “If I agreed to send away even one innocent child into the hands of a hostile country, with no guarantee of when or even if they might return, I should find no reason to be ‘happy.’ If you find yourself satisfied - truly satisfied and at peace with yourself - in the face of such heartless acts, may God have mercy on your soul, and all of Wellington Wells.”</i><br/>
<i>After this exchange, Victoria Byng hung up the call, and would not be reached again.</i><br/>
<i>In the year 1954, there was complete silence from Wellington Wells in totality, and in 1955, after multiple failed attempts at restoring communication, Lymington stepped down as Secretary of State for the Affairs of Wellington Wells. The position remains vacant as of today.</i></p><p>Arthur’s mind was running a mile a minute, thumbing through documents with single-minded focus. <i>So… We had a choice… We actually had a chance to maybe, just possibly, get the children back. Imagine how differently things could’ve turned out for us. I could’ve seen Percy again! </i><br/>
<i>And we chose instead to just… just forget and be happy. Rather than deal with all the stickiness of fixing our mistake. Rather than even acknowledge our guilt in any meaningful way.</i><br/>
The most frustrating thing to him was that he couldn’t have even done anything about it. <i>They made the decision unilaterally. Before they sacrificed all of our chances for maybe seeing our loved ones again, couldn’t they have at least… I don’t know, taken a vote? Held a forum? Tallied up a poll? Something?</i><br/>
But Arthur knew well enough, for all his exasperation, that that wasn’t exactly how things in the little city-state of Wellington Wells worked, at least, not after the war. And it was 1953 - well, every good Wellie knew that was right after Joy was introduced, and therefore the modern era, or, that was, the point after which “everything worth remembering” began. Not that most people could clearly recall even most of that, once addiction set in. Use (and then abuse) of Joy had taken off like it was going out of style. Most people were eager to start forgetting - at the time, he remembered... he certainly was. If the public had a say, he didn’t know if it’d have made a difference, anyways. Given the choice between a difficult, complex option that would reopen fresh wounds and heartbreak, and an all-too-easy denial of that option’s existence, would most people have said yes? ...Would <i>he </i>have said yes?<br/>
<i>Victoria… My old boss. How long have I known her? I can’t believe even she was in on the cover-up. Well, maybe I can. </i><br/>
<i>Alright, we’ve got to find more information. There has to be something more. They’ll have more documents about this… What was it they had called it? Right.</i><br/>
Flipping his way through the letters of the alphabet in the current box of papers, he finally landed upon the sheet which contained a list detailing all the Office’s archival holdings on the subject of the government’s mission to find the children: Operation Prodigal. “<i>Yes</i>,” he rejoiced to himself, under his breath. <i>Now all I have to do is fill out one of these so they’ll get them for me.</i><br/>
He tore off a pull slip from one of the pads they kept at all the desks and hurriedly filled out the necessary information, looking back and forth between the two to ensure he’d gotten the details correct. As soon as he’d finished it, he went over and set it down on the research assistant’s desk with an enthusiastic tap of his hands upon the wooden surface.<br/>
He beamed proudly. “Lovely day for it. Just handing in my request slip here, thank you.” He slid it underneath the little glass partition, where she picked it up and examined it. A curious look crossed her face.<br/>
“You’re asking access to the <i>entire</i> record series on Operation Prodigal?”<br/>
“Yes, that’s correct.”<br/>
“May I ask what for?”<br/>
“I’m a reporter. It’s all part of my research for the piece I’m writing.”<br/>
“...Ah.” She set the slip down on the desk. “Well, I’m afraid you haven’t got clearance to access these records. Unless you... also happen to work for the Cabinet Office.” She glanced at the little paper “Journalist” badge he had been so fond of.<br/>
“Oh.” Arthur’s smile faltered.<br/>
“I’m sorry. They’re just not open to the general public, you see.”<br/>
“Well, I’m sure sometimes they grant exceptions, don’t they? Who should I see regarding that?” Arthur was fairly accustomed to working his way along labyrinths of bureaucratic management to get what he needed. It was just a chain of talking to the right people.<br/>
“Well… For some things, yes, but for the records we keep on contemporary governmental operations… No. I’ve never seen such a thing happen. That we have a reference sheet for them is just for recordkeeping; they don’t even let any of us touch those documents.” She drew herself up in her chair. “But don’t worry, I’m sure for what you’re working on we can find some information that would be more than appropriate. I can fill out a form for you for some of the different holdings we have related to that subject, those which would be available to you as a journalist. Can I see your identification?”<br/>
“Er…” Arthur hesitated, patting his jacket pocket. He did still have that press pass from <i>The</i> <i>“O” Courant</i>, but if his interaction with the innkeeper back in Ilfracombe had taught him anything, it was that he should really be more cautious with anything he had that might bear some sign of his old life. “I’m sort of an… independent journalist.”<br/>
“...Right. You don’t have one?”<br/>
“No. I’m afraid not.”<br/>
“Unfortunately… I do need that, for this.” She set down her pen and looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”<br/>
“You’re sure there’s nobody I might be able to talk to about getting clearance?”<br/>
She shook her head. “No. Well, not whose information I’m at the leisure to give out. I do apologize.” She tilted her head, watching him with reserved, public-service sympathy.<br/>
Well... he’d just have to find the right person himself. “Well, thank you.” She nodded politely at him as he turned around and walked the few steps back to the desk he’d been occupying, feeling a bit deflated.<br/>
He started putting the documents on the desk top back into order, his hands moving slowly and without the enthusiasm that had motivated them only a few minutes ago, as he tried to think of what he was going to do next.<br/>
In the quiet research room, populated mostly with the sounds of the turning of pages and the occasional conversation between researchers and the staff, the desks provided for visitors were laid out along walls, partially separated from one another - not quite cubicles, but with half-partitions which slanted down toward the researchers at their chairs. It was out of this quiet from which he became vaguely aware of a sound coming from the desk to his left side, a quiet “<i>psst</i>” that reminded him of being in school, when kids would whisper whole conversations to each other across desk rows, beneath the detection of the teacher. He focused in on his peripheral vision without glancing over, remembering that the desk to his left was being occupied by a lady who had been there, apparently working diligently, for - it must have been - at least as long as he’d been there. Well, whatever that was about, he was sure it wasn’t anything to do with him. He wasn’t the sort of person, he thought, that was easily picked out from a crowd. He wasn’t used to being singled out, which served in his favor even sometimes when he’d been skulking around as a Downer - times when he had, probably, every reason to be viewed with even more suspicion than he’d managed to arouse. He was remarkable in his unremarkableness.<br/>
“<i>Psst!</i>” But there he heard it again, with more urgency. This time, it came coupled with the sound of long nails tapping impatiently against the wooden partition.<br/>
Yanked into awareness, Arthur turned in his chair. The girl in question, now that he properly took notice of her, had thick blonde hair that fell neatly down to her shoulders and a stylish little shift dress that was impeccably matched to her fuschia beret. She was smiling with an air of friendly playfulness. He, for his own part, was rather puzzled.<br/>
“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re a reporter?” Her voice was hushed, but Arthur could still detect a hint of her cut-glass accent, the rather prim articulation that punctuated the way she pronounced each syllable. Though unlike others he’d heard more commonly, who tried to affect a manner of speech to seem high-class, it sounded almost as if she was trying to conceal or downplay hers. It didn’t sound “stuffy” on her. There was a certain flair to it.<br/>
“I - yes,” he replied, caught off guard.<br/>
“Me, too. Morgan Stone,” she introduced, holding out her hand.<br/>
He shook it, a bit tentatively. “...Arthur Hastings.” Should he have used his real name? Well, too late, now.<br/>
“Well, it certainly is nice to meet you. Arthur. I believe I heard - please forgive me for eavesdropping, won’t you - that you’re an independent journalist?”<br/>
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and offered a smile. “Yes, well you know how it is. I do some work for one publication one place, and then move right on to another someplace else. Freelance. I like to keep my own schedule.” He was over-explaining, probably, he thought. He didn’t know what to say.<br/>
“Funny we should meet; that’s precisely what I do!”<br/>
“Oh, really?”<br/>
“Yes. I run all about the city picking up stories. Magazines, newspapers, television... Really, a little bit of everything. And other things, too. Right now I’m doing some digging into family history files for a little News of the World story on this big scandal with Kitty Boudon.” She laughed.<br/>
“Oh, wow. Brilliant. Is that... hard to find information on?”<br/>
“Oh, not when you know where to look… Suppose I’m rather experienced with this sort of thing by now,” she observed, a little distantly. “Well. Do you come here often?”<br/>
“No, not really. Ha.”<br/>
She smiled sympathetically, glancing in the direction of the research assistant’s desk. “They do keep things quite tight here, sometimes.”<br/>
Arthur nodded. “So I’m finding.”<br/>
She leaned back and smiled. “I hope this doesn’t sound awfully forward of me, but may I ask if you have anywhere to be tonight?”<br/>
“Well -” He blinked. “No.”<br/>
“You don’t? But it’s a Friday night!” She protested.<br/>
“I’m… very devoted to my career.”<br/>
“Oh, me too. But we’ve all got to have fun now and then, don’t we?” She shook her head. “No matter, no matter. What I wanted to ask you is, my colleagues and I meet every week to discuss what we’re working on. It’s a little... roundtable discussion. We all share tips and compare notes with each other. I wanted to invite you to join us tonight, if you liked.”<br/>
Now… that was interesting. A discussion group? With people who knew what they were doing, and perhaps could help <i>him </i>know what <i>he </i>was doing? Well… That could be useful. It wasn’t like he had any other leads, after all. Before he had time to hesitate, he heard the words tumble out of his mouth: “Really? That sounds brilliant, actually. I’d love to.”<br/>
“Oh, wonderful! I live in a flat in South Kensington… Here, I’ll write the address.” She tore off a sheet from a Public Record Office notepad and wrote on it before handing it over to him. “Be there by nine if you can.”<br/>
“Thank you. I will. Should I, er - should I bring anything?”<br/>
“Oh, no. No, that’s fine. Just yourself.” She grinned, and then the clock that hung above the doorway drew her attention suddenly. “Oh, dear, I’d better get going now. I still have some errands to run. I’ll see you later this evening, then?”<br/>
“Right. Yes.”<br/>
“Lovely meeting you, Arthur.” With a friendly wave she was off.<br/>
What had just happened?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Beaux Mondes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In spite of the war’s after-effects, London still seemed a rather lustrous place. He had been here once before, he knew, a long time ago. It was after his parents had first realized that Percy was growing up differently than other children his age, which was, Arthur thought, fairly early in his life. When their family doctor back in Hamlyn Village hadn’t been able to give a useful answer, they’d went to see a specialist on child development. He never knew what that London doctor had suggested, but it had upset his mum the most. It was the first time Arthur ever saw her completely break down. They tried to keep him from seeing her that way, but it was hard not to notice, even then. Even his father was indignant - he kept mumbling he couldn’t believe they would suggest doing <i>that, </i>whatever that was about, to his son. In any case, what had been disclosed changed both nothing and everything. Percy never received any sort of treatment - if his differences were something that required “treatment,” Arthur thought - but from then on, no matter how remarkable Arthur thought his brother was when it came to certain things, it was solidified that he was supposed to be “slow.”<br/>
Arthur had been quite small then, and everywhere around him everything seemed so <i>big</i>. It was worlds away from the little village in which he’d grown up. London - well, the parts of it he was seeing now, anyways - seemed to have all the sophisticated style of the Parade District, while being infinitely larger. Yet still, it continued to puzzle him how not even the Mainland’s own capital seemed to be enjoying the benefits of the some of the most advanced technology. He’d been looking around since he’d arrived in London for what he’d come to take for granted as essential technologies of civilized life, to no avail. There was no Joy (that much was fortunate, at least), and no widespread surveillance (he was <i>fucking thankful</i> for that) but he could also see no evidence of any large-scale pneumatic transport (which meant no Blowers - unless the infrastructure was hidden to the eye, he supposed), no Motilene to power (relatively) cleanly and efficiently, no Jubilators to keep the streets tidy (which could be handy even without corpses lying around! Right?) While he was living in Wellington Wells he had assumed the rest of the world was quite possibly just as shit, if not reduced to rubble. Now that he’d discovered the contrary, he found it odd that they’d never reached equivalent discoveries and inventions by now, if not surpassed them. It was... sort of nice. It was like time traveling in the strangest way, jarringly new and yet completely familiar, like if he were revisiting the world he remembered before the war. But such a shame that a stable society hadn’t the benefits of technological development when he was sure they could put them to much less sinister and more genuinely helpful use. Where was the Mainland’s own version of Doctor Faraday when they needed her, eh?<br/>
So, never, when imagining what lay beyond that fateful Britannia Bridge, would he have imagined that London all the way across the country would look quite like this, that life would have carried on so dutifully; that its citizens, however battered economically, emotionally, and physically, would’ve kept up that stiff upper lip and rebuilt their country so <i>quickly</i>. And all this while apparently working to pick up the pieces places like Wellington Wells left behind, despite the fact that, as the smoke and dust and poison gas cleared, the Mainland couldn’t have been in the best position to lend assistance itself.<br/>
For its part, this particularly lively bit of London’s West End hardly showed signs of any hard times. That was putting it lightly, in fact. As he gazed out of his window seat on the bus, he could observe, even in the darkness, the manicured land, the boutique shops, the lighted windows in row after row of stark-white stately residential buildings. Silhouetted in the occasional passing window were scenes of inhabitants within, mostly groups of people, talking, or dancing, or... enjoying each other’s company. Arthur felt a strange melancholia, a loneliness, come over him. He was really by himself here; nobody knew who he was. He traveled in darkness, on the last bus of the night with scarcely another soul in sight, and he had no identification, no sort of reputation, nothing.<br/>
His situation was tenuous and temporary at best. Upon his arrival, Arthur had found the nearest pawnbroker’s shop, and he’d lightened his load considerably by selling everything he could think to get rid of. That was, everything that he actually could sell here - that had value in this society, and that he felt he wouldn’t regret getting rid of, now that he was adapting to a new mode of living that perhaps didn’t rely so much on various survival tools. This had given him enough money to rent out a hotel room near to where he anticipated he’d be researching at the archives, and it would be enough to pay for some public transport, as it was needed. After that would run out, well… he didn’t know. One thing at a time.<br/>
The current thing was getting off the bus and finding Morgan’s flat. He took out the scrap of paper, running his thumb over the indentations made by the pen as he tracked house numbers down the street. <i>This’ll be alright</i>, he kept telling himself, <i>this’ll be… er, fun</i>. <i>Meeting new people. It’ll be like a work conference.</i> <i>Unless she was only so nice because it’s some sort of set-up, and she’s going to chloroform me and harvest my organs, and I was a special kind of foolish sod to fall for it.</i> <i>Christ, Arthur, you’re a bloody morbid person these days. Going Downer really has made you afraid of everything, hasn’t it?</i><br/>
He glanced up. This was the place, it looked like. He found the flat number she’d written down, checked it against the note another time, and pressed the doorbell.<br/>
“Oh! Hello.” A man answered the door, bright blue geometric shirt tucked into white, tapered trousers, and white ascot to match. “Er, excuse me one second.” He looked over his shoulder and shouted. “Morgan! There’s a bloke here at the door. Glasses, black suit? Have you invited another stranger over?”<br/>
From the back of the room - Arthur could see, behind the man, that there was a kitchen partially walled off from the main living space - Morgan emerged, hurrying over towards them. “Oh, Wally, he’s no <i>stranger</i>,” she reprimanded. “This is <i>Arthur</i>.” She rested her hand on Wally’s shoulder, and her other hand patted Arthur’s upper arm, ushering him inside. Wally shut the door gently behind him. It was a small flat, but very stylish: bright green walls which matched the green pencil dress with a white belt that Morgan was now wearing, an assortment of lamps set in dynamic, curving lines, none of them quite the same, oval-shaped chairs and a couch set on little stilt-like legs, a record player against one wall which was playing something that Arthur didn’t think was Nick Lightbearer, although it sounded a lot like his music to him.<br/>
“You <i>were</i> listening when I told you about the gentleman I met today, at the ‘PRO?” She asked Wally and then, not waiting for an answer, continued: “Wally, meet Arthur. Arthur, Wally.”<br/>
“No stranger’s a stranger to our Morgan,” came a remark from a man seated to the right with one leg folded over the other, balancing a wine glass precariously on his knee. “She brings in anyone who catches her eye while she’s out making her rounds. She’s always meeting the most -” he drew his voice up in an imitation of hers - “<i>fascinating</i> people.” His gaze was such that Arthur couldn’t quite tell if he was directing the comment at him, or all the others. Arthur flashed an uncertain smile at the people who were peering over to get a look at him from where they were sitting or standing.<br/>
Morgan huffed. “Oh, stop it! Look at yourselves. Besides, you forget that’s why I know an awful many of you. Including yourself, Graeme.” She cast a glance at the glass-balancer, than smiled apologetically at Arthur.<br/>
“So sorry, Arthur. I’m so glad you’ve made it. Here, Wally will take your coat, and if you’ll come with me I’ll get you something to drink.”</p><p>“Vinn! Sneaking a taste, are we?” Morgan accused as she entered the kitchen, Arthur at her heels, discovering a man in a bold green and yellow striped suit stooping over a tray in the oven.<br/>
“On the contrary, Miss Stone, on the contrary,” he reassured with a mouth full of pastry crust. “I was checking on them for you. I know how upset you get when you lose track and burn something.”<br/>
She crossed her arms. “Oh, save it, I’ve heard that excuse before. You’re just too good to wait like everybody else.” Shaking her head, she took a set of potholders from a hook on the wall and bent to take out the baking tray, examining them. “Well, since you’ve took it upon yourself to be taste tester today - how are they?”<br/>
“Oh, they’re <i>excellent</i>. Always are.” His hands found her waist and settled there delicately as he stood behind her. “You know, I’ve always thought your petit fours are the best thing you make. Perhaps that’s because they’re the <i>only</i> thing you make, really,” he teased.<br/>
A smile couldn’t help breaking forth out of her stern act. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, coyly. “Bastard.”<br/>
“Oh, pish posh. You know you’re mad about me,” he growled, leaning close so that his nose grazed her hair when he spoke. “Aren’t you?”<br/>
He paused with cavalier surprise as his eyes landed on Arthur for the first time. The poor lad who was still standing in the doorway, not quite sure where to politely fix his gaze. “Oi, who’s the new bloke, then?”<br/>
“This,” she said, setting down the tray and gracefully stepping out of Vinn’s embrace, “is Arthur. I met him researching at the ‘PRO today. You’ll love him. He’s an absolute dear.”<br/>
<i>That’s quite the endorsement, </i>Arthur noted to himself.<i> We’ve only spoken all of ten minutes. Well, perhaps that’s precisely </i>why <i>I seem to have left such a good impression</i>. <i>I haven’t had time to bugger things up yet</i>. Arthur waved. “Good evening.”<br/>
Vinn picked up another one of the petit fours off the baking sheet, popping it into his mouth. “Hullo.”<br/>
Morgan made a face at Vinn. “If you’re going to meddle in my kitchen, you might as well make yourself useful. You wouldn’t mind bringing out the food?” She picked up two already-prepared plates, what looked to be assorted olives and tinned pineapples, complete with little toothpicks stuck into them, pressing the dishes into his hands.<br/>
“It would be my pleasure, my dear. I knew there was something you were still keeping me around for, after all.” He nodded towards her and then flashed a cheeky grin at Arthur when he passed him on his way out.<br/>
“What were we here for? Right.” She crossed over to the other side of the kitchen, where there was a double-sided minibar which opened, by way of a half-wall, to the living space. “Chardonnay, Arthur?” She asked, but she’d already uncorked the bottle and was pouring.<br/>
“Thank you,” he replied as he took the glass she held out to him. <i>Alright, well, when in Rome...</i> He took a tentative little sip, wondering when the part was coming where they’d get around to sharing all those great journalism tips and tricks she promised.<br/>
“It’s delicious, isn’t it? A vintage from ‘39. Almost as old as me!” She giggled. “The company certainly seem to like it. We only started ten minutes ago and some are on their second glass already. But that’s alright; I have a whole case.”<br/>
Arthur was starting to doubt whether this <i>was</i> in fact a “meeting to discuss work.”<br/>
“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get back to the party, shall we?”<br/>
“Party?”<br/>
She laughed at his confusion. “Yes, silly. The party. You’ll enjoy it. They’re quite a nice lot, once you get to know them.”</p><p>“These two lovelies, Arthur, are Heath and Dana. He’s a photographer and she’s a reporter. They met when they were paired up on an assignment about the boutiques of Carnaby Street. Isn’t that sweet? Loves, this is Arthur. He’s an independent journalist - like me.”<br/>
This definitely was a party, then. Well, alright<i>. The last time I was at one of those, I saw all my coworkers beat a rat to death and eat its raw innards. By comparison, this should be a breeze.</i><br/>
“Well hello. Lovely weather we’ve been having these past days, innit?” Arthur greeted cordially.<br/>
“Yes, yes,” agreed the petite girl with wide eyes whom was identified as Dana.<br/>
“So, Arthur,” began Heath, to her side with a welcoming smile, “we were just having a discussion about this latest controversy over Kitty Boudon, you know, and that Russian statesman she was found with in a bathhouse in the East End. We’re split on the issue, so I’m dying to hear new input. Do you think she was telling the truth when she insisted she’d never met the man before?”<br/>
“Oh, good question.” Arthur pretended to be giving it serious thought, like he had the faintest clue. Was there a right answer?<br/>
⭘ Say “no”<br/>
⭗ Say “yes”<br/>
“Personally, er, I think… Yes. Yes, she is.”<br/>
“Hmm, I see. Interesting.” There was a brief, thoughtful quiet in the room as the guests apparently considered this. “Well, I think that settles it,” Heath decided jovially, looking around the room. “If our new guest Arthur thinks so, she must be innocent. In this matter, at least.” He raised his glass good-naturedly.<br/>
“What I’d give to have been the one to break <i>that</i> story,” one of the men from earlier, Wally, sighed wistfully. “I suppose I ought to hang about bathhouses more often. Knowing the right place to be, that’s the key. I’m sure you feel the same way, Arthur.”<br/>
“Oh, yes. Certainly.”<br/>
“Ooh, hold on, this is a fun question I like to ask all Morgan’s new friends - always gets a laugh - if you could pick one of today’s <i>beaux mondes</i> - if you know what I mean, ahah - to catch repairing away to, say, a steamy little Soho walk-up, you know, with the “Models Here” sign and everything, who would you choose?”<br/>
“Yes, good question… Um. You know, I just can’t decide. I actually… It sounds strange, but I don’t catch a lot of the news, really. I’m always so… busy working on things of my own.”<br/>
“Oh? What <i>is</i> it you write about, then?”<br/>
“Well… Things about history. I write for a couple different history journals.”<br/>
“Ah! That’s fascinating. An academic type, are you? I just knew it. Well, you’re in good company with Heath. He’s quite the budding amateur history enthusiast.”<br/>
Heath’s interest was clearly captivated by this. “You’re a history writer? Which ones do you write for?”<br/>
“Oh. Right, yes, well. All the big ones round here. You know. I wouldn’t bore you listing them off.”<br/>
“Wow - well, what do you know? Next time I pick one up, I’ll look for your name.” He nodded enthusiastically. “What did you think of the latest story in <i>History Today</i> about the major contributing factors leading to the campaign for Irish Free Rule?”<br/>
Arthur did know a thing or two about history, but keeping up with the surprisingly intensely specific expertise of Heath proved a bit trying. He’d tried to keep his answers vague where he didn’t know, and that had proved a good enough strategy, because Heath mostly just seemed excited to have someone to listen to him as he rambled on.<br/>
Still, when Dana finally pulled him away so that the two of them could go attend to the hors d’oeuvres and refill their glasses, Arthur breathed a quiet sigh of relief. How had he done it, before? He seemed to remember enjoying himself a good bit at parties, in his past. He used to fit in so effortlessly then. Of course, that was with the aid of that incredible social lubricant, Joy. Nearly anyone made for pleasant company, under the influence. Without it, he couldn’t help but feel a bit naked. He looked down into his glass of wine. He was never more than a one-pint-every-now-and-then drinker, all his life. In his experience, you had to be careful about alcohol when your judgement was already half gone to shit on happy pills, or you’d really fall flat on your arse.<br/>
He raised his eyes and noticed a row of framed photographs hung upon the wall. They were all of Morgan, in each one wearing a big bright smile on her face, and standing with different people. They all had autographs scrawled prominently on them. The one on the far left apparently was taken with a certain “John Lennon.” Who was that? He hadn’t the faintest, nor did the names “Michael Caine” or “Brian Jones” mean anything to him, but they must have been some examples of today’s <i>beaux mondes</i>, Arthur inferred.<br/>
“I see you’ve noticed the Wall of Stars,” Vinn’s bemused voice came from behind him.<br/>
Arthur turned around. “Yeah, I have. That’s... rather impressive?”<br/>
He smirked. “Yes, quite. I think she must fancy herself a bit of a star collector, haha. I think it may just be her favorite part of the business. She gets a real thrill out of meeting important people, when she gets the chance. I’ll always remember her leaping out of bed at four AM when she got the call that someone had called in sick and they needed her in a pinch, to interview Jean Shrimpton later that day.”<br/>
“Wow. A friend to the famous, eh?”<br/>
“An aspiring one, anyways.” Vinn laughed. “I don’t suppose they exactly stay in touch after, though. Well, you know how it is.”<br/>
Arthur wasn’t exactly sure if he knew. He smiled anyways.</p><p>The party went on into the evening rather painlessly for Arthur. The group seemed to accept him fairly readily, and throughout the party they kept trying to involve him by calling for his opinion and “settling” any disputes in their discussions. Most of the attendees worked for the tabloids or else popular culture magazines, he found, and their talk actually did often circle back to matters of their work, as Morgan had promised. He did learn some new things, after all - at least he’d been able to piece together a few bits of knowledge on current events, which, he reasoned, could come in handy for conforming better. It was well into the midnight hour already, when people began to talk of leaving.<br/>
“Morgan, you will come with us, won’t you? Cyril Davies is playing at the Marquee tonight. We’d stay longer, but we simply can’t miss it,” a girl in a bright red and pink dress urged as Wally was helping her into her coat.<br/>
Morgan smiled ruefully as she collected up the odd scattered dish and glass. “Oh, I would. I’m sure it’ll be a smashing time. But I’m afraid I’d better stay in and work on that Boudon piece. I’ve got a deadline, you know.”<br/>
“Aww. Boo. You work too hard, you know, Mo.”<br/>
“I like to think it pays off,” she defended distractedly, trying to fit three wine glasses on one hors d’oeuvre plate.<br/>
“I’m sure you’d be able to make up for lost time. Friday night only comes once a week, after all.”<br/>
“Perhaps. But then I’d have to scramble, and I don’t like that much at all.”<br/>
“What about you, Arthur? Care to join us?”<br/>
“Ah, no, that’s alright, thank you. I’d better not. I’ve got deadlines, too.”<br/>
“Well, maybe next time, then.”<br/>
Standing beside the door, one of the men - Graeme, Arthur recognized him as - made an exaggerated show of stretching and yawning. “Oh, <i>dear</i>. I’m right tired, I am. I feel I’m almost too <i>knackered</i> to twist tonight.” His mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. “Haven’t got any more of those little blue jobs, Morgan, have you?”<br/>
She huffed and stood there for a moment, a stern hand on her hip. Graeme’s smile just widened, holding his ground. She gave in and produced a small, unlabelled bottle from an endtable drawer, crossing over to him. “You’re lucky I’ve a soft spot for you, Graeme,” she muttered as she shook something out into his open hand. It was hard to see from here, but it was small, blue-violet and angular, a little teardrop resting in his palm. <i>Funny</i>, Arthur thought, <i>to think I left Wellington Wells to escape drugs</i>.<br/>
Graeme pouted petulantly. “I only get one?”<br/>
Morgan sighed. “I can’t just give them away like candy,” she protested. “They’ve gone and raised the price on me again, you know.” Despite her complaints, she shook a couple more into his waiting hand. “Enough to get you through the night?”<br/>
Graeme nodded, popped a couple, and washed them down with the last of his wine. He pulled her close and planted a big kiss on the side of her mouth. “You’re a life-saver, baby.”<br/>
“Morgan’s giving out Purple Hearts? Saved some for me, didn’t you?” Vinn held out his hand to her and was quickly joined by a few others. “Wouldn’t want to leave us out, would you, Mo?”<br/>
“Utter parasites, all of you. Bleeding a poor working woman dry.” She laughed wryly and distributed more of the pills.<br/>
“Oh, poor Miss Stone, slaving away all day, barely able to pay the bills with her measly inheritance money. Shall I start up a charity for all the less-fortunate ladies of South Kensington?”<br/>
She shot him a look. “That would be a start, yes. It would be nice to see you take some initiative for a change.”<br/>
He patted his coat pockets, pretending to feel for his wallet, and then shrugged. “Get you back next time, I will,” Vinn reassured casually.<br/>
“Oh, I’m sure.”<br/>
“What would we do without you?”<br/>
“Languish alone at home and never do the shing-a-ling ever more, I suppose,” she retorted. “Run along then, loves. You’ll be late.”<br/>
Graeme opened the door for the others, giving her a big wave. “Same time again next week, Morgan?”<br/>
“Unless we should meet again sooner.”<br/>
Graeme winked.<br/>
“Thank you, Mo,” Wally said over his shoulder. “Lovely evening,” someone else concurred.<br/>
“Be good, everyone. I don’t want any of you driving,” she reminded.<br/>
“We won’t be,” Dana reassured.<br/>
After the last of the chorus of “thank you”s tapered off and the door had shut behind the last of the small group, she turned around with a sigh, facing Arthur. “What a bunch of louts... Yet I love them all.”<br/>
“I can tell. They’re… Very nice people, they are.”<br/>
She laughed at that, tilting her head back and covering her mouth daintily. “Glad you think so.”<br/>
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking at the door. He hadn’t intended to be the last one left. “Well, I suppose I’d better get going. Thanks again for inviting me.”<br/>
“Wait! Don’t be in such a hurry. Stay for a while.”<br/>
Arthur turned around, a little hesitant. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work…”<br/>
She waved dismissively. “Oh, that’s nothing. I still have the whole night ahead of me for that.” She gestured towards the kitchen. “Come. Do you want a coffee, Arthur? I just set the French press on for myself a minute ago. There’s enough on for two.”<br/>
“Well… Alright.” He did never get a chance, amidst that lively crowd, to ask for advice on his problems with the ‘PRO, after all. “I’ll stay for a coffee.” He set his coat back down and followed her.</p><p>“Arthur, we didn’t get as much time to talk as I’d have liked,” Morgan remarked as she poured coffee into two elegant white cups. She gestured for him to take a seat at one of the stools at the minibar. “Tell me about yourself. I want to get to know you better. Dreams? Plans for the future? Love life?” She brought the mugs over to the bar and leaned on the counter towards him, attentively.<br/>
Arthur bit his lip, hesitating. This certainly seemed like… But there had seemed to be something going on between her and that Vinn fellow… But then again it had seemed maybe she was like that with everyone... But he didn’t want her to think… So maybe it was best he got it out of the way first...<br/>
☒ <i>Let her down easy</i><br/>
“I… Er, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I, um…” He cleared his throat and forced himself to meet her gaze. “You’re a lovely bird and all, but I’m not interested in… Well you see, there’s this girl that I…”<br/>
She blinked at him, taken aback, and then burst out laughing. “You thought I was <i>coming on to you</i>? Oh, that’s rich.”<br/>
“Well, I -” he tried, feeling defensive. “I just wanted to avoid -”<br/>
“So you took it upon yourself to reject me preemptively, just in case.”<br/>
“I suppose I could’ve…”<br/>
“I want to know more <i>about</i> you, not <i>shag</i> you on my kitchen floor. Trust me - you’re not my type. Not like that.”<br/>
“Right.” His face burned with shame. He’d handled that one delicately, for sure. <i>Arthur, you stupid git. You’ve a real knack for burning your bridges with people, don’t you</i>?<br/>
“So there’s nothing to worry about.” She took her seat next to him and punctuated this with a laugh, a bit softer and gentler, now. “It’s okay. A lot of people assume… I’ve always been outgoing and they take my interest as something else, when it isn’t always... that.”<br/>
“Terribly sorry. Sorry! I’m sorry.”<br/>
She shook her head. “Don’t let your coffee get cold.” She took a sip of her own and watched his embarrassed hesitance. “Say, I’ll start us off. I suppose you know as little about me as I do you. Well… I’ve been in this industry for about five years now. I was a fresh-faced university graduate in 1959, ready to take London by storm. Well, except I didn’t really know what I was doing then. It was fortunate that I happen to be a fast learner. And persistent. I practically camped out in front of some places before they finally agreed to let me have any scrap of work. But I did, and then I built up from there. And regardless of what Vinn said, I’m not actually relying on any inheritance money. I’m not some sort of… helpless heiress. I do perfectly well enough for myself, although...” She sighed into her coffee mug, faint steam rising into the air. “I suppose sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever really distinguish myself.”<br/>
Arthur was grateful, at least, that the time he spent listening to her had given him some time to recover. Though he still felt terribly awkward, he could at least better pretend he wasn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” he reassured her. “You seem to be getting along very well. I saw your photographs, on the wall there. The celebs. That’s rather brill, I thought.”<br/>
She smiled thinly. “I suppose. I just feel I haven’t really accomplished anything... really fantastic, yet.”<br/>
“Well… You’ve lots of nice friends.”<br/>
“Yes, I do. Except sometimes I worry they only keep coming around for the free drinks and pills.” She shook her head, then, apologetically. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”<br/>
He coughed. “Well, you… Seem to be really good at researching! Perhaps you could give me some pointers about that? Now that I mention it.”<br/>
“What do you need help with? I thought you were a historical journalist. You could probably show <i>me</i> a thing or two, about research.”<br/>
“Yes, well… You wouldn’t happen to know how I might go about getting an override to access restricted documents, would you?”<br/>
She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I mostly go there because they have things you wouldn’t really expect, helpful resources most of my colleagues wouldn’t think to look for because it’s just a government archive. I’ve never needed anything particularly <i>classified</i>.”<br/>
“Neither have I. I’m not very familiar with the whole process over there.”<br/>
“Why, I’d have thought it’d be your very bread and butter. It’s got so many historical records…”<br/>
“Well… Maybe I’ll settle on just trying to get proper press access first. You’re freelance, too. How do you go about getting press identification for things?”<br/>
She raised an eyebrow. “I just ask whatever people I’m doing a piece for to give me something, write me a letter if there’s some place I need to get into and can’t. If they haven’t already given one to me, which they usually do. No one’s ever given you one of those?”<br/>
“Well… I suppose not.”<br/>
“Arthur…” Her green eyes pierced into his, more curious than severe. “Are you really a journalist?” She blurted out suddenly.<br/>
“I, er… What?”<br/>
She shifted in her seat, uncertainly. “I’m sorry, it’s just… Well, perhaps it’s just a matter of me being unfamiliar with the world of historical writing, but when I was listening to you talking with the others I couldn’t help but get the funny feeling that… Well, I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to hide anything from me.” She folded her arms neatly in front of herself. “Are you a journalist, truly? It’s alright if you aren’t.”<br/>
“No, I mean - Yes… I mean…” He smoothed a hand over his hair. “I used to be. In my old town.”<br/>
“Ah. Where was that? If you don’t mind me asking?”<br/>
<i>Fuck it. What was the use of coming up with more lies, at this point? Chances were, the way this conversation was going, he’d never see her again, so what did it matter what happened anyways?</i> He swallowed, looking down at his hands. “Little place called Hamlyn Village,” he mumbled. “Wellington Wells.”<br/>
“<i>Wellington Wells</i>?” She breathed, pulling herself to her feet. He could feel her trying to meet his gaze, to tell if he was being sincere or not. Feeling a deep sort of weariness, he looked up at her and nodded.<br/>
“Oh, my God. You’re serious.” She flopped a hand down on the counter. “I thought everyone… They said everybody from there had probably died out somehow by now.”<br/>
“Well, that might have been a bit of an exaggeration,” he observed dryly, looking down at himself and then back up at her.<br/>
“They said… I did always hear that there were some people that managed to get out, but… But nobody ever hears from them. I thought it was made up.”<br/>
“Well, I think I still exist. The last time I checked, I still did. Heh.”<br/>
“How did you manage to escape?”<br/>
“Ah. That’s a long story, that one is. How much time have you got?”<br/>
“It must have been proper gruelling…”<br/>
“Oh, no, it was easy. I just walked right up and said, ‘‘ello there Constable, I know we’ve sort of been under a state of total lockdown for several years now, but you wouldn’t mind if I popped out to the Mainland for a quick look round, then, would you?’”<br/>
“I can’t believe you really came all the way from… Are you <i>okay</i>?”<br/>
“Holding up alright. Well as can be expected, anyways.” He gave her a small, tight smile.<br/>
“So why… What were you doing there, then? At the archive?”<br/>
“Oh, I can’t just be going about my normal life, casually browsing classified records on government operations?” That was a laugh and he knew it; what even was a <i>normal life</i>, anymore? “I was… Looking for my brother,” he admitted, more softly. “I need to find what happened to him.”<br/>
“Shit.” Her eyes were wide. “You’d have been separated from him in the…? I’m sorry.” She put a hand on his shoulder.<br/>
“...Thanks.”<br/>
“But… Christ, Arthur. This is… This is incredible... We can’t waste this…”<br/>
“What do you mean?”<br/>
“I don’t know…”<br/>
There was a long silence. Morgan seemed to be thinking something over, intensely.<br/>
“Maybe I should… Go. I didn’t mean to throw this all upon you. I’m sorry.”<br/>
“You’re looking for your brother,” she said, suddenly. “I think I know someone who can help you.”<br/>
“Oh?”<br/>
“Yes. My brother works for the government. In the MI6. Foreign intelligence. I can introduce you.”<br/>
“You really would?” <i>After I’ve just sort of been a prick to you</i>?<br/>
“Yes… If you’ll do me just the smallest favor.”<br/>
<i>Of course</i>.<br/>
“I’ve got this… opportunity. I mentioned I work with television occasionally, didn’t I? Well, what I wanted to know was...”<br/>
“Yeah?”<br/>
“You wouldn’t mind helping with this interview I have to do, would you? Just for a teensy bit?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Skippers, Downers, and Uppers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Another pretty long one! But I didn't split it up this time. I like it as it is.<br/>Here we take a peek at things from a different perspective c:</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>And we’ll return after these few messages. I do hope you’ll join us for our next programme, which if I do say so, poises itself to be... the first of its kind on television. After the break, reporter Morgan Stone interviews a man that - according to my notes here - claims to be a ‘skipper,’ that is, one of the few, the only, that have managed to escape from the city-state of Wellington Wells. Don’t miss it - we’ll return shortly</i>.”<br/>Well, that was interesting. It was a Sunday - afternoon on a Sunday, and, considering the kind of programming that usually was aired at such a time, the telly had been put on mostly as a background to the day’s chores. So, when Sally heard mention of a “first of its kind on television,” she was skeptical - but then when the newscaster finished his sentence, she nearly believed it might be true.  <br/>She had discovered rather quickly, after all, that her origin was the kind of thing that people out here, maybe not all of them, but a great many, whispered about in tones of scandal and voyeuristic curiosity. She’d quickly decided, for her part, to avoid speaking of it. Whatever this interview was, she didn’t need new controversy stirred up that she’d have to hear everywhere, filling her waking hours with reminders of a place she’d rather not forget so much as just not think about right now. She had more important things to worry about.<br/>That said, she couldn’t say her interest hadn’t been piqued. She kept glancing over at the screen from where she was posted in the kitchen, keeping an interested watch for when the programme would return.<br/><i>“This Christmas, give her Dairy Box: the chocolates that she’ll love. Designed for her, each Dairy Box - the chocolates that she’ll love.”</i><br/><i>huh. it still feels odd to think it’s that time of the year now.</i><br/>From the little bassinet in the living room, she heard Gwen stirring, burbling little sounds of vague discontent.<br/>“I know, darling, I know, it’s time for your lunch. Mummy’s almost ready with it.” She took the pan of water she’d been heating to a gentle temperature off the hob, checking it with a clean finger before pouring it into the bottle she’d readied with powdered baby milk. <i>Christmas.</i> <i>it’ll be her first! i wonder what i should get her. have to see what i can do. of course it’ll be more for me than her at this stage.</i> She picked up a spoon and started stirring to incorporate it as she began to cross over to Gwen.<br/>“<i>Try Simmers Coconut Biscuits yet! Your family will love them. It’s the best of ingredients that give Simmers Coconut Biscuits that good home baked flavour.</i>”<br/>“Shit, where’ve I left the bottle top?” She set the bottle down on the coffee table, looking around the room.<br/>“<i>And we’ve returned. For those of you just joining us, we are here about to present to you a most fascinating chat with a man who survived Wellington Wells and lived to tell the tale - a first on television, we should like to believe. This young man goes by the name of Arthur Hastings, and it’s a tremendous pleasure to have him on our programme for you today, courtesy of the lovely Morgan Stone, who will be conducting the interview. Without further ado, I’ll turn you over to them, live here at our studio in Shepherd’s Bush</i>.”<br/>She froze. <i>well, that’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it? hahaha… how often do you hear of two Arthur Hastings from the same little island. who managed to get out. i suppose it’s a common enough name but</i>   <br/>They cut to the interview room as promised, and the spoon fell from Sally’s hand with a metallic clatter.<br/>Even on the fuzzy black-and-white image of the tiny television which had come with the furnishings of her flat, he was unmistakable. Sitting there looking overly-formal as usual and a bit out of his element, sweating under the stage lights, probably, across from a stylish blonde, against a simple white constructed background. Broadcast into the homes of Britain in the middle of Sunday daytime television. Arthur.<br/><i>good fucking christ on a bloody bike. of all the people… </i>She thought she’d never see him again. Had half-hoped she never would. She’d been trying to forget all about him ever since he’d turned around and made his priorities painfully clear.<br/>“<i>Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Connors. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to give a warm welcome to Arthur Hastings. A student of engineering in university, who later worked for some time for his hometown’s newspaper, and more recently as a civil servant, Arthur has recently made a new addition to his list of occupations:” </i>She paused with what she must have fancied as dramatic effect, her glazed-on bright and cheery smile sobering for a brief second while she stared into the camera.“<i>‘Skipping’ over from his home of Wellington Wells, traveling over two-hundred miles in total before reaching us here today. Arthur, it’s lovely to have you</i>.”<br/>Arthur had been sitting with his hands folded over his crossed legs, fidgeting slightly, his eyes taking in his surroundings as Morgan introduced him. He flashed a smile, nonetheless, at his cue. “<i>Thank you, yes. Great to be here</i>.”<br/><i>Arthur, what are you doing?</i><br/>“<i>Marvellous. I must admit I think I speak for us all when I say I’m simply dying to hear more about your fascinating experiences. How about we begin with your most recent profession? You’ve told me that before you came here you worked in Wellington Wells for someplace called the Department of Archives, Printing, and Recycling. Could you elaborate on that?”</i><br/>Arthur cleared his throat. “<i>Yes, well. I worked there as an editor. I was responsible for, er… Assessing archival newswriting collections, making critical decisions on their value and choosing which to preserve.”</i><br/>“<i>An archives, then? But where do the ‘Printing’ and ‘Recycling’ bits fit in? What was the function of this Department?”</i><br/><i>“Um, well, I suppose… Protecting people from seeing anything that might upset them. People… Don’t exactly want to remember their past.”</i><br/><i>“A censorship board, then? Oh! How dreadful.” </i>She covered her mouth. “<i>Do forgive me. I meant no harm in that. I’m sure you took pride in your work</i>.”<br/>“<i>At the time, I suppose I must have.”</i><br/>Sally couldn’t believe what she was seeing. What had gotten into him? There was something so <i>public</i>, so<i> exposed</i> about this… this… stunt, beyond how jarring it was for her to see him like this after things had been left off so brusquely, that made it simply surreal. He was actually rather good at <i>acting a part</i> when he wanted to, at being who whoever in authority wanted him to be, she thought, but she didn’t know him to seek out a <i>spotlight</i>. <br/>“<i>Yes. Well it sounds like a very comfortable job, after all. What ever prompted you to leave?”</i><br/><i>“I was fired, as, um, I wasn’t able to fit in anymore.”</i><br/>She nodded sympathetically, and turned to the camera again. “<i>Yes. Many of our viewers may have heard rumors of a certain drug from Wellington Wells called Joy. Everyone there must take it, or they’re called a Downer. Is that true, Arthur?”</i><br/><i>“Yes.”</i><br/>But then again… People could change. She had every reason to believe this wasn’t quite the same Arthur that she’d known, all those years ago. She’d been naive enough to think he might genuinely have cared to help her, but he’d shown her as much, in the end.  <br/>She’d given up trying to understand him. That’s what she told herself, anyways. And yet she still wondered.<br/>“<i>If you’ll permit me the curiosity, what does it feel like, being on Joy?”</i><br/>“<i>It feels… brilliant, actually. At first, at least. It’s like… being in love with everything. Well, no, not really. Because when you’re in love you feel strongly, you… you care, deeply. But on Joy you haven’t got a worry. It makes everything seem lighter on you.”</i><br/><i>so this is what you’ve been up to in your time in the Mainland, then. this is what you were in such a hurry to dash off for. what kind of crazy scheme have you gotten yourself wrapped up in now?</i><br/><i>“So, you feel </i>joy<i>-full?” </i>She giggled.<br/><i>“Ha, yeah. But… It’s not so great, really. It gives you amnesia and makes your mind all... fuzzy. And you have to keep taking it or the come-down is terrible. But if you take too much you can barely even remember who you are.</i>”<br/><i>“I see. But you’re not on it today. Correct?”</i><br/><i>“Correct.”</i><br/><i>money just has to be involved in this somehow. i suppose he thinks he’s moved onto greener pastures now. i just hope he doesn’t get himself killed, saying all this on bloody public television of all places!! who knows what people will make of this.</i><br/><i>“What was it that caused you to decide to stop taking Joy?”</i><br/><i>“I… Wanted to remember my past.”</i><br/><i>i can’t believe i’m still watching this i can’t believe i have to see this. fuckity fuck Sally, just turn it off! </i><br/>But she made no move to.<br/><i>“That must have been very courageous of you. I imagine you had a terrible time after you made that choice</i>.”<br/><i>“You could say that, yeah.”</i><br/><i>“How does Wellington Wells treat a Downer?”</i><br/><i>“Well…” </i>He shook his head. <i>“Not kindly. They either run you out to the slums where they put everyone who doesn’t belong… Or they weed you out a </i>bit<i> less mercifully. So to speak.”</i><br/>Her eyes widened and she gasped, a motion that seemed a little contrived somehow, a performance for the camera. “<i>No! Don’t tell me they</i>…”<br/><i>“Not exactly a place to raise your family, Wellington Wells.” </i>An awkward laugh.<br/><i>“You could say that again… How would a family life work in such a place?” </i><br/><i>“Well. It doesn’t.”</i><br/><i>“How? No families?”</i><br/><i>“...No children.”</i><br/><i>ouch.</i><br/><i>“No children… My, goodness. But then how will they…”</i><br/><i>“I…” </i>A conflicted look crossed his face. “<i>Well, I don’t think we - they’ve - exactly thought that far ahead</i>.”<br/><i>i might have been able to understand why you did what you did, Arthur, if it really was all for your brother. that’s what i told myself. wasn’t i gullible? ha.</i><br/><i>there i go trying to get in your head again. don’t know why i do it</i><br/><i>it’s not like it would change anything.</i><br/><i>“A people destined to… Oh, dear. I think I can understand perfectly why you’d want to leave, Arthur. But how did you pull it off? The bridge into the country has been closed for years, no?”</i><br/><i>“It has, but once you get there it’s not so… That is, getting there was the hardest part. Travel’s restricted everywhere you go, and you’re being watched all the time.”</i><br/><i>“Wow. How long did that take you?”</i><br/><i>“It’s… Sort of a blur, really.” </i>He scratched the back of his neck. “<i>I was just trying to make it out alive.”</i><br/>“<i>It must have been a hard, lonely time. Was there anyone sympathetic to you?”</i><br/><i>“It felt like the whole world had gone mad except me… Or, I had.”</i><br/><i>“Surely there were people that helped you?”  </i><br/><i>“...Here and there. Yeah.”</i><br/><i>fuck off. </i>“Here and there.” <i>forgotten about your bloody letter of transit, you bastard?</i><br/>As if he heard her, he frowned thoughtfully and added, “<i>I wouldn’t have been able to make it without help. Really</i>. <i>Nobody can really get by without others, can they?</i>”<br/><i>a man of the people. truly</i><br/>Morgan smiled again. “<i>Well, that’s very profound. I wanted to ask one more thing in our time here, Arthur. How are you finding London?”</i><br/><i>“Oh, yes. Well, beautiful city! Lots of… Cars. And, um… Much better than the alternative.”</i><br/><i>“London: much better than the alternative.” </i>Morgan grinned mirthfully at the camera. “<i>Well, you’ve heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s truly astounding interview with Arthur Hastings, ex-Wellie, with a truly fascinating story. Gosh, I could just sit here and ask questions all day, but I’m afraid we’re out of time. Arthur, thank you so much for your time today</i>.”<br/>The sound of Gwen crying, in earnest now, broke Sally out of her absorption. She took a step forward and fumbled numbly to switch the telly off. Spotting the bottle top at last, like one waking up from a dream to find the solution to her problem laid out neatly in front of her, she scooped Gwen up into her arms and comforted her.<br/>“Shh, baby. Mummy hasn’t forgotten you. She never could.” She rocked her back and forth gently in her arms as she began to feed herself. “Not just because you need her, but because she needs you.” Sally inhaled deeply, her breath shaking slightly, to her dismay. “Because she loves you, and she’d <i>never</i> leave you behind.”</p><p>Gwen had been looking so much better ever since they had left Wellington Wells. She seemed healthier, more alert. She’d learned to giggle, now, and had begun babbling out her first experimentations with language, little strings of syllables. She was growing by the day.<br/>Sally was sure that not being sequestered away by necessity had something to do with it, even though the days were getting colder and colder and the sun more reluctant to shine. Bundled up all cozy in several layers in her pram, Sally was sure that Gwen was safe from the chill of the air, though. And what a chilly one it was, today. It was early in the morning, and the sun was only just scarcely shining, although already the streets were lined with people on their way to their jobs and running errands. She was thankful it was such a short walk to work.<br/>It had been hard to get used to at first, bringing Gwen out into the public. The fear that comes from bringing up your newborn child in a place where, were your secret revealed, the two of you were liable to be beaten to death by an angry mob or else taken away by demented doctors for <i>experimentation</i>, didn’t exactly go away easily.<br/>She’d had the most beautiful fantasy that the two of them would run off to live in the English countryside, free from everything that would have brought them harm back in the Old Country and totally independent at last. The thought had kept her going, for those difficult months. But when she got to land, she quickly realized it wouldn’t be so easy. How to get a house was one thing, and, even if she managed to grow all of her own food, she’d need to afford the proper seeds and equipment first. And she’d have to wait until spring to plant, and then in the meantime there’d be other needs, like food and clothing. And then, most urgently, she hadn’t enough milk with her to last Gwen long enough until she’d be ready to switch to solid foods.<br/>In other words, she found she couldn’t really delay heading into the city. But even then, it hadn’t been easy to figure out what to do. Now that she didn’t have to hide Gwen, she found even the thought of leaving her alone for such periods that she often had to back home to be utter agony. But she didn’t have anyone that could help out with that. And what sorts of jobs were exactly available to a single mother in her position? <br/>She’d tried to find one. She’d have been willing to take nearly anything - all she asked was she was able to take Gwen with her. That couldn’t have been so unprecedented, right? Surely, long ago, before everyone lived like they did now, mothers must have taken their children with them when they did their work. Out gathering the harvest, they would have kept their babies, she imagined, in a little basket in the shade, close at hand, and safe.<br/>So that’s what she tried - she must have been an odd sight, she realized, frazzled but hopeful, dressed head to toe in sleek latex fashions and a baby in her arms, to boot… an extraterrestrial amongst them, fallen from the sky, from the way they reacted - she went into every place she saw and asked about a job. If she wasn’t turned down outright, then the answer she got, after making up a story about her husband passing away and having no living relations on either side, was them tossing her some small sum of money (which felt more like an insult than anything), and saying “I’d advise you to go down to the local parish shelter for the poor and dispossessed, where they might be able to help you better.” There wasn’t anything wrong with that, but she just didn’t feel right accepting charity, not when she could very well work. <br/>Still, she’d been becoming desperate enough that she was about ready to give in to their advice - when she remembered something.<br/>She remembered that Anton had lived in London in his early days. He had left when he was only fourteen, to hide away from the Blitz. Well, his parents had sent him. In a strange, vulnerable moment once, he told Sally of a tearful departure from his school sweetheart, his first love, who had to stay behind in the city. After wracking her brain like hell, she managed by some miracle to remember her name: Kirlew. Phillipia Kirlew. He’d said she was a keen girl from a rather well-born Jamaican immigrant family who’d wanted to be a scientist, like he did. He’d lamented about her to Sally when he was in one of his nasty moods, a deliberate attempt, likely, to make her feel jealous. <br/>But, if she could find her here, Sally thought… perhaps she might just help. People sometimes got soppy about long-lost people in their past, didn’t they? They made emotional decisions moved by feelings they’d thought they left behind long ago, if you knew what to say to elicit them.<br/>It was a crazy idea. What guarantee did she have that it’d go anything like she’d hope? But that was the only person she knew of on the entire Mainland. And, since she would never let Anton into her and Gwen’s life, even if he would want to, even if it was an <i>option</i>… she might as well let something good come by association with him.<br/><i>except Gwen, of course,</i> she reminded herself. <i>she’s the one good thing to come out of everything.</i><br/>And by some stroke of luck, Phillipia - now Dr. Kirlew, sure enough - was finally found, after some asking around, in a chemist’s shop that she owned herself. Dr. P. Kirlew Chemist, it was called. DPK’s, some locals nicknamed it. Go figure.<br/>Sally had made her audience in her office there. She hadn’t known what reaction to expect from her. Dr. Kirlew was an elegant, serious woman with dark tresses that framed a face that seemed younger, in comparison to Anton, than the forty years she must have been pushing. There was something a little bit intimidating about her as she regarded her from her desk, studying her carefully.<br/><i>“Anton Verloc. I’ve not heard that name in some twenty years.” </i>Her expression changed to something of a tight, dour smile, still just as unreadable.<br/>“<i>Yes. I used to work with him at Haworth Labs, in Wellington Wells. He spoke very highly of you. He told me you two went to school together?” </i>The truth - she couldn’t avoid this much of it - but just the bare truth. She had been strategic about what she said, until she was sure exactly how this Dr. Kirlew felt about her old flame.<br/>Dr. Kirlew laughed mirthlessly. “<i>Yes. Long ago.” </i>She looked up at the ceiling, and Sally almost thought she wasn’t going to elaborate.<i> “He was proper heartbroken when he had to go. I was too. You know how young lovers are…” </i>She sighed.“<i>He begged me to write to him every week. He had me writing to him like that for half a year, all the while his own replies became fewer and fewer. Then he sent a curt final letter telling me that he needed to focus on his education, and not girls. Not a second after he convinced my family to send him a hundred pounds to pay for ‘schoolbooks’ he was supposedly struggling so hard to afford. Deceitful cad.”</i><br/>Sally had secretly breathed a sigh of relief. This would be much easier than having to sing Dr. V’s praises, as she thought she may have had to. “<i>That doesn’t surprise me. He took the credit for the drug I invented, then accused </i>me<i> of stealing </i>his <i>notes and conspiring maliciously somehow to become his competition when I left him.”</i><br/><i>“That sounds like the impudent little boy I knew.” </i>She leaned her chin upon her hands<i>. </i>“<i>But you managed to get out of there, did you?” </i>She tilted her head, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but Sally thought she saw a flicker of admiration in her eyes. “<i>You must be a clever girl.”</i><br/><i>“I have over ten years experience in pharmacology. I would fit in perfectly here. I promise you wouldn’t regret hiring me.”</i> She couldn’t stop the words from coming out in an eager tumble. <br/><i>“What is your certification?”</i><br/><i>“Well… None. I learned on the job.”</i><br/><i>“I am forbidden from hiring anyone without proper certification. Unfortunately, it is the law.”</i><br/>There was a pause, and Sally felt a pang of fear, mingled with exasperation, rise up through her. If she was about to be sent on her way, after exhausting her options and going through all the trouble of finding her best hope...<br/>But Dr. Kirlew took another evaluative look at Sally, took a look at Gwen sleeping in her arms, and continued:<br/><i>“I have an empty room, beside the broom closet here. It used to be used as an additional office space. It’s small, but there’s enough room for a crib. There’s a window to let in light, and fresh air in the warmer months. And a small window on the door, too. I can’t hire you as a pharmacist, but we could still use some help around the shop.”</i> <br/>Sure, maybe it would have been nicer if she’d been able to work as one of the pharmacists. She’d started hoping for that, doubtless excited by the possibility, as soon as she learned what Dr. Kirlew’s profession had ended up being. Still, considering the circumstances, she felt remiss if she was anything but incredibly thankful for the position she did get. After all, she had told herself - it wasn’t forever. She didn’t make an outstanding salary, but it was enough, and if she was careful, she thought, she’d be able to start saving up soon. Once she had a little money saved up, and Gwen was old enough to start going to school… Why then, the possibilities would be endless. Perhaps the chance to go to school herself and get the certification she needed. Perhaps her little house in the countryside. Perhaps even travel, in the future - the two could see the world together.<br/>And she had been happy, these first couple weeks at DPK’s. She now felt truly, independently free from Wellington Wells - finally and entirely. Dr. Kirlew had put enough trust in her that she was willing to give her her first paycheque in advance, so that she could secure her little terrace flat and get herself a few essentials. She was comfortable. Every night she came home and, though sometimes too exhausted to prep her own dinner, she delighted in the time she now could spend with her daughter, giving her all her attention. She was keeping to herself, keeping her head down. She was entirely too familiar with all the trouble that getting tangled up with men brought into one’s life, in any case. Far more trouble than they were worth.<br/>A lady on the street stopped in her tracks as she went to pass Sally, a big grin blossoming on her face. “My, what a beautiful baby!” <br/>Sally smiled patiently, letting the pram roll to a stop, and the lady bent to appreciate Gwen. “What gorgeous eyes.”<br/>“Aren’t they?” Sally agreed. “She’ll be four months, before I know it.”<br/>“Ohh, you’re in a golden period, you are. They’re so sweet at this stage. Such a happy time to be a mother. Enjoy it - they grow so fast.”<br/>“Tell me about it. Every day I notice something new!”<br/>“Well, she’s absolutely adorable,” she reiterated. “I’m sure her father is absolutely beaming with joy.” <br/>“Yes, he’s very proud. He comes home from work every night and gives us both a big kiss. Says he couldn’t wait to return and see his angels.” Much easier to lie than deal with the scorn she was sure she’d get from telling any part of the truth. It was just a harmless little rose-coloured fantasy, anyways. Fun to imagine, and it’d certainly be nice to have the help… but it couldn’t compare with going to bed every night knowing she supported herself, that she was the master of her and Gwen’s destiny. Even if that destiny did have its own, well, practical limits, sometimes. Temporary ones. <br/>Evidently it delighted the lady. “Oh, isn’t that <i>precious</i>?” She clasped her hands together. “Where does he work, dearie?”<br/>“He’s a foreman down at the watch factory. Long days, but he says seeing our daughter smile gives him all he needs to get through.”<br/>“You don’t say? That’s where my boy - well, he’s all grown up now, of course - works. He’s very glad to be there, he tells me. It’s a good job.”<br/>“It really is. We couldn’t be happier.”<br/>The lady tilted her head. “My, it makes me so happy to see a young lady with such a promising future like you. Take care of your family first, and they’ll always take care of you. A good mother goes to any length to ensure the wellbeing of her family.”<br/><i>you don’t know the least of it...</i><br/>“Well, I’ve got to be on my way. Have you heard there’s a sale on for radishes? Down at the greengrocer’s. If you head there soon there might be some still left. Too-da-loo.”<br/>Sally had no sooner gotten back into step, pushing Gwen along, when a newsstand caught her eye. Stacks of papers in neat rows, and on the front page, printed big and unexpectedly… A picture of Arthur. A still from yesterday’s interview, it looked like.</p><p>
  <i>ARTHUR THE “SKIPPER”: ONE MAN’S DARING ESCAPE FROM WELLINGTON WELLS</i>
  <br/>
  <i>For many years, the English public has had to sate its potent curiosity regarding secrecy-shrouded Wellington Wells with mere unconfirmed rumors and speculation. Though the island has been a source of utmost intrigue ever since it made news in the years after victory, its virtually complete closure from the rest of society had made hearing from the Wellsians themselves an insurmountable task. But now, one man brings those long years of silence to an end by sharing his experiences. Yesterday’s broadcast of a most remarkable chat with a man who escaped after living there since before the war has piqued unprecedented levels of interest, with the volume of calls to the broadcasting studio so high that at the time of writing it had proved impossible for our team to get on the line. The public imagination is alight with suggestions of the frights of Wellsian society - mass censorship, willfully induced memory loss, violent suppression of dissent, the total breakdown of the very family unit we hold essential. It is clear that this one Arthur Hastings is the product of a most shockingly unnatural society, the victim of the most cruel of customs, and yet many who have taken to sympathy at once have commented that even on the telly he possesses a certain inexplicable charm. It’s a sensation that you have to see to believe - and, for those who may have missed it, the interview is being rebroadcast tonight by popular demand, at seven PM.</i>
</p><p>So this was happening, then. Sally swallowed back an unexpected wave of pain as she was hit with the realization that she might just have to get used to seeing his face everywhere for however long, as he lived out… whatever this was. That, if it was true how crackers everyone was going over that little interview, she’d be forced at any unexpected moment to remember and relive all over again, no matter how sensationalized, how surreal, how downright strange the whole thing was.<br/><i>but that’s silly. what am i so afraid of? a little picture printed in black and white ink on a few square centimetres of broadsheet paper? what i’ve built for myself can’t be taken away by some daft little news article. it’s certainly far bigger than whatever it is he thinks he’s doing.</i><br/>She remembered a night long ago, when Arthur had shown her (or had she shown him?) the secret about honeysuckles, how if you pick and pull apart the blooms in just the right way, you can reveal the tiny pearls of nectar they keep hidden. Holding out your tongue, as you might to catch a falling snowflake, a tiny drop of floral sweetness lights up the palate. And it was all the more luxurious when sugar was tightly rationed. Together the two of them had nearly picked a whole bush empty, the white blooms standing out in the darkness as they lay scattered in the grassaround the poor plant. “<i>Poor things. Each of these flowers had such potential</i>,” she’d lamented as she examined the carnage. “<i>Now look at them</i>.” Suddenly their laughter had dissipated into seriousness, as it often did in those days, and Arthur was asking her a hesitant question she’d been unprepared for:<br/>“<i>Sally, do you think I’ll ever be the sort of person people remember?”</i><br/><i>well, Arthur. i suppose you are.</i>    </p><p>Unfortunately for her, getting to work wasn’t a respite from hearing about Arthur. She was in before everyone, getting the store ready to open, and then when the pharmacists started trickling in to start their shifts, she overheard their chatter as she busied herself stocking shelves.<br/>“Did you hear about that man from the island - the one that gave their children to the Germans - Brigid?”<br/>“Oh, of course I have. I didn’t catch the programme, but my sister rang me up after and asked had I been watching the telly. Told me all about it.”<br/>“I didn’t watch it either. They’re showing it again tonight, though.”<br/>“Mm. Suppose I’ll have to watch it, see what all the fuss is about. I rather doubt it’s warranted.”<br/>“You do?”<br/>“Yes. How do we know if he’s really what he says he is? Every dead news day, the tabloids make up some saucy rumor about Wellington Wells to sell copies. If you ask me, it’s just an attention-seeking impostor.”<br/><i>oh, he’s nothing if not telling the truth. maybe not the whole truth... but who would, ha. not that i’d tell them that even if i could be bothered to.</i><br/>“Well… I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out?”<br/>“You’ll believe it when you see it,” chimed in a zealous third voice. “I saw the broadcast and I feel totally convinced he’s being honest. You can see it in the face.”<br/>Brigid shook her head dismissively. “I doubt it. And even if he was telling the truth, I don’t understand all the bloody… glorification. If he’s one of them, he’s a rotten child-trafficker.”<br/>“I don’t know… I saw his picture in the paper and he seemed kind of sweet, in a funny sort of way. Isn’t there just a sadness in his eyes that makes you want to cheer him up? I kind of… like him.”<br/>“Yeah! Plus - I thought he was rather handsome, didn’t you?”<br/>“Well, maybe. If only his nose wasn’t a bit too big for his face.”<br/>Sally felt herself pause just a second too long in the middle of reaching to place a bottle of iodine on a top shelf, her heels pinching her toes uncomfortably. Despite herself, she bristled at their comments.<br/>Brigid huffed at the girls’ observations about the mystery man’s looks, clearly not amused either, though surely for different reasons. <br/>“You’re too old-fashioned, Brigid. You can’t hold the poor fella accountable for something he likely had no part in, just because his homeland decided it was alright in the middle of the war. There’s no use in holding onto that grudge anymore, we think,” one of the girls resisted.<br/>“Well, you were scarcely alive during then. You weren’t old enough to appreciate what it was like, all the deprivation and the suffering. And hearing that news. Hearing about the women and girls here, with relations in that forever-cursed place, who broke down and sobbed because it was the first time they heard what happened to their cousins, nieces, nephews, granddaughters, grandsons... I even remember a rare few that had lost their very <i>children</i> whom they’d sent to live with family there during the Blitz. For too many, the first time they ever heard about it was on the radio or telly.”<br/>“I wasn’t ‘scarcely alive,’ I was ten years old...” the younger girl protested, though she seemed sobered by Brigid’s speech.<br/>Brigid turned away from her. “Sally, what do you make of all this? Did you manage to see the interview yesterday?”<br/>Sally started and nearly dropped the bottle in her hand, as if she’d thought herself undetected by all the outside world and fancied that her private thoughts had been laid bare to everyone by the look on her face. Really, she wasn’t used to her coworkers going out of their way to make conversation with her, as a rule. In a move that was perhaps bold for the owner of such an establishment, Dr. Kirlew seemed to find it important to give the somewhat small but growing number of women in the industry the chance they were pushed out of in other places, and as such hired an all-female workforce. Which, by all accounts, had worked out very well indeed. The staff was composed of bright and ambitious young women, many of whom were a few years younger than Sally, recent graduates, as it were. And while they were always polite, they seemed to keep a sort of respectful distance from her. Perhaps they saw themselves above talking to the conspicuously single mother and shopgirl that had suddenly been installed in their midst. <i>or perhaps</i>, Sally thought, <i>they’re merely giving back what i’ve put in</i>. <i>i haven’t exactly had much time to bother with socializing.</i><br/>Brigid, though, for all the… What could she call it? Resentment? She was sort of right, Sally had to admit, in some of her criticisms… that she was displaying in the current conversation, was different. She was the closest she had to a friend here. She stood out as the oldest among everyone, perhaps a bit older than Dr. Kirlew herself, but she seemed to take a liking to Sally instantly, regarding her with nothing but personal warmth and kindness. Though maybe, Sally was realizing now, it’d be different if she knew what currently only Dr. Kirlew knew herself, about where she’d come from.<br/>“Yes, I did manage to catch it, actually. By mistake more than anything.” Sally wavered back and forth on what approach to take. As she’d listened to them, she’d felt that old heartache again. She had to admit to herself that for all her anger towards Arthur, which had nothing to do since Wellington Wells but grow more bitter, she indulged in that feeling partly because it was easier than ruminating on the still-fresh hurt and self-doubt that roiled underneath. There was the little thought, whenever her righteous anger peeled away, that told her maybe it was all her fault somehow. That whether she could’ve avoided it or not, she worried, she’d ruined things herself and made Arthur hate her so much. That maybe she just wasn’t good enough.<br/>It was stupid, she thought, irrational, but still there somewhere, tangled up amongst everything.<br/>“Well?” Brigid prompted. “What do you think of Mr. Big Nose, then?”<br/>⭘ <i>Take your opportunity to really lay into Arthur</i><br/>⭗<i> Let him dig his own hole - but leave the rest of us out of it!</i><br/>She didn’t know why, but she felt called to say something at least marginally to his credit. After all, she told herself, this wasn’t really about him so much as the reputation of all Wellies - herself, unfortunately, included.<br/>“I have to agree with the others, Brigid... he can’t really be held responsible for <i>everything</i>. You never know. He might have been… Just as affected by it as everyone else.” She understated, shrugging. “Surely the people of Wellington Wells weren’t any happier to lose their children than the rest of us were to hear about it?” She smiled, trying to be persuasive even if she found herself feeling a little self-conscious. “Some of them, I heard, even did horribly desperate things, to prevent their children being taken away,” she added quietly.<br/>Brigid seemed to be softened by her words, swayed by them in a way Sally got the sense that the other girls’ attempts to convince her would have failed to somehow. “Well… I suppose you have a point,” she admitted only a little begrudgingly. “Being in that position <i>is</i> agony for any parent. I don’t envy them in the least.”<br/>“Sally?” One of the other girls glanced from her to the service counter. “Would you mind taking up the front? I just saw a couple people walk in.”<br/>DPK’s was quite the favourite pharmacy within the community, and at certain times it was liable to get rather busy, with a line almost out the door and the staff scrambling to fill prescriptions and fetch over-the-counter cure-alls for an eager clientele. During these times, although the girls each generally shared the role of helping customers at the service counter and then handling the medication themselves (which Sally was of course forbidden from, in her current role), they often were quite grateful for Sally’s help there, relaying prescriptions to them to fill while she took care of the people. In the past few days, however, the girls seemed to have taken on the habit of calling her up to the front whenever they were in the middle of a conversation and wanted to continue talking amongst themselves. They were getting used to it. Or so it seemed, anyways.<br/>Sally wasn’t too bothered this time, though. It got her away from what was to her not an altogether enjoyable chat, and besides, she saw the smiling face of an already-familiar customer waiting on the other side of the counter. A lot of the patrons of the pharmacy, especially those who apparently had made it their pharmacy of choice for a long time, were quite friendly and often had a favorite girl they’d prefer the help of above anyone else’s. Sally didn’t think she’d been there long enough to be anyone’s favorite, but this customer, she knew, at least treated everyone as if he was pleased as punch to see them. She already could pick him out as a frequent visitor. She’d seen him twice last week, once picking up a prescription and another time some sort of electrolyte drink.  <br/>“There you are!” he greeted affably. “Thought I’d pop in before work and pick up my ‘scrip.” With a grin he presented his prescription, and Sally picked it up, reading the scrawl back to him. “Twenty-eight tablets drinamyl at twenty miligrammes?”<br/>“Correct, miss.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “It’s that bloody narcolepsy of mine, I tell you.” He shook his head in apparent consternation, yet he was still smiling widely as if she and him were in on some joke.<br/>Sally could’ve probed him on that cover story, if she didn’t think it to be in poor form. This man was among those that was here at least weekly, and to her knowledge he was filling prescriptions not just of drinamyl but durophet, too. Both amphetamines, and both valid treatments for certain conditions, but also decently potent as uppers. And to her estimation his was a bit excessive for therapeutic dosage. It wasn’t that she had any judgement to offer, but she was curious if her suspicions were correct.<br/>“Say, you wouldn’t happen to know if Doris is in today?” He continued discreetly, looking over Sally’s shoulder. “I wanted to say hi, since on Mondays she’s usually -” The smile returned to his face when Doris popped in at the mention of her name.<br/>“Good morning, Heath!” She peeked at the prescription in Sally’s hand. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.” Sally could’ve sworn she saw her wink at him quickly, inconspicuously.<br/><i>well that’s interesting. come to think of it, Doris does seem to be the favourite of a lot of these upper-favouring types</i></p><p>When it was time to bring Dr. Kirlew her afternoon tea - one of Sally’s responsibilities, for better or for worse, was preparing everyone’s tea, and occasionally fixing food or else picking up takeaway from the chip shop across the street - she decided to investigate. Well, the observation had come out almost impulsively, and right after she said it she’d wondered if she should have said anything at all. She didn’t particularly care if Doris was slipping a few extra tablets of drinamyl here and there, if it wasn’t causing anyone disastrous harm, and in any case she had no desire to stir up any unnecessary trouble in her new workplace.<br/>Luckily, it was phrased with Sally’s characteristic tact, and in such a way that it seemed harmlessly innocent. “Awful lot of people picking up amphetamines today,” she commented politely after she set the tray down and Dr. Kirlew offered a brief thanks.<br/>Dr. Kirlew looked up from her work, a little distantly. “Is that so?”<br/>“Yes - I noticed one of the girls saying we were starting to run low on durophet,” Sally added hastily, trying to justify her bringing up the matter and not seem like she was simply making idle chatter - small talk being something that Dr. Kirlew evidently didn’t seem to place much value on, understandably, at least while involved in her work.<br/>Dr. Kirlew looked a bit more interested, then. “Really? Our shipment usually lasts us a month. I shall have to take a look into it.”<br/>“I wonder why we’ve been dispensing so much lately.”<br/>“It’s only a relatively small proportion of all the medications we handle.” <br/>“That’s correct, although I could swear I saw six or seven people picking up such prescriptions this morning. And I wasn’t relaying prescriptions very much today.”<br/>Dr. Kirlew smiled with the barest touch of amusement, then, and Sally thought her innocent act was working on her. Being pushed out of the pharmacological aspects of the pharmacy and thus being assumed ignorant - even by her boss, even though she knew at least a little about Sally’s experience in the field! - as a default perhaps had its advantages, after all. “I see. And all of them young men and women, I imagine? Fashionable sorts?”<br/>“Now that you mention it, yes,” Sally concurred as if she’d only just noticed that. “How did you figure?”<br/>“The reason we’re seeing a small uptick in amphetamine, if you wanted to know,” she decided to indulge her, setting her pen down, “would be that a law recently went into effect restricting its use. Recreationally, that is. So I suppose that a few enterprising youths took it into their own hands to obtain it through the legal channels.” She raised her eyebrows, meeting Sally’s gaze. “There are a handful of doctors around here, I regret to say, that prescribe rather <i>indiscriminately</i>.”<br/>“Oh, dear,” Sally pretended, but she could have almost laughed at Dr. Kirlew’s stern tone. The German military had used them to keep awake during long nights, hadn’t they? She remembered hearing that. For that matter, she’d remembered seeing them once or twice when she and Arthur trespassed, in search of cigarettes. Surely if their use had been sanctioned for that, they couldn’t be so bad. If a few kids wanted a pick-me-up on the weekends to have fun now and then, was that really so shameful? <i>well perhaps i only feel that way because of where i come from. compared to all the madness of Wellington Wells, the shit that people are getting into here seems harmless as baby aspirin. </i><br/>“When used by those who do not need them, patients experience insomnia, tremors, loss of appetite, tachycardia, priapism, and, in severe cases, psychosis. Tolerance develops rapidly so that they feel they require doses many times the therapeutic norm.” She sighed and poured milk into her tea. “But there’s little to be done about it, by us. I know that it’s not what you’d like to hear, but we simply have to look the other way. It is our duty to fill whatever the GPs prescribe, regardless.”<br/>“I understand.” Sally’s expression sobered a little bit. She had long been familiar with and learned to live with the moral ambiguities that came from making and selling drugs. She would have liked to think that by developing such things as Strawberry and Blackberry Joy, making improvements on the formula, that she had made some sort of positive contribution to peoples’ lives, but she had seen the effects of their dependence enough to know it wasn’t as simple as that. God knows what the Blackberry addicts were doing now, without their steady supply. <br/>She hadn’t told Dr. Kirlew about that part of her work history, although she may have inferred it if she knew any of the rumors about Wellington Wells’ <i>unusual pharmaceutical history</i>.<br/>“Keeping them happy would serve us well. I’ve already seen in the paper, a few chemists getting robbed for this very purpose. Amphetamines, that is.” She shuddered. “I must protect my pharmacy and my girls here, first and foremost,” she added with a note of determination.<br/>“...Maybe there’s some way we could come up with a solution that avoids both extremes.”<br/>“Ah. I admire your attitude, Sally. I do so wish we still did pharmaceutical apprenticeships in this country. I’d offer that to you in a heartbeat, if I could.” She shook her head regretfully. “The issue of amphetamines does weigh on my mind, too. Should something happen, a new policy be introduced to stop these medicines getting into the wrong hands, I would be the first to support it.”  <br/>Though what Sally perceived as this “my-hands-are-tied” way of thinking about things was something she was well accustomed to in Wellington Wells, had heard a thousand times from people like Dr. Verloc in justifying much worse things, there was something particularly disappointing about it here on the Mainland. If one drug wasn’t working as well as it should, well, someone ought to devise a better one. Surely they could do better, with all their resources?</p><p>It was nearing the end of the workday, and most of her coworkers had already gone home. As usual, Sally was staying to close up the building. Before she went to grab the mop and bucket, she went to check in on Gwen.<br/>When she opened the door to the little makeshift nursery, she froze. She hadn’t expected to see anyone standing in there. <br/>Her initial panic only cooled a little in the split second that she realized it was only Brigid. She was rocking baby Gwen in her arms, bottle in hand, the evening’s last bit of late-year light filtering in from the window behind her, haloing the woman’s curly, greying hair.<br/>“Oh, hello, Sally! I’m sorry if I startled you. I heard her crying in here and I thought, I’ve finished up for the day anyways, why don’t I give her mummy a break? Found the formula in the kitchen and fixed it up for her.”<br/>Sally still hadn’t gotten used to the idea of other people caring for Gwen, or even touching her. “Hi! Brigid! What a... Pleasant surprise.” She felt herself tense involuntarily, and perhaps irrationally, she thought. She knew people here weren’t like people back there, but she had to consciously remind herself of that, sometimes. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you. I suppose I was too far away to hear her this time,” she admitted with a trace of guilt.<br/>“Oh, it’s nothing. She’d barely started when I noticed. Besides, she’s a little sweetheart.” She regarded Gwen with an adoring smile. “We mothers feel guilt about every little thing. <i>‘Am I doing this right?</i>’ we’re always fretting. But we don’t have to bear it all alone. Even if we haven’t got another parent to ease the burden.” She gave Sally a meaningful look.<br/>“Oh? I didn’t know you had children, Brigid?” Sally gazed at Gwen again, peacefully nursing from the bottle. She was proud of herself for working to convince herself there was no danger, even when everything was telling her there was. She was trying to use this moment as an opportunity to take control of that anxiety and not let it overcome her, and so she pushed herself to let Brigid keep her a little longer and keep the conversation going instead. She did feel a strong urge to have her back in her arms, but she didn’t want to hurt Brigid’s feelings, especially when she had to admit it was rather touching to think she would go out of her way to let a tired mother have a little break.<br/>Brigid didn’t look up as she answered. “Oh… Yes, a little girl, like yours. That was a long time ago.” She met her gaze with a sadness unhealed although dulled by time.<br/>Sally’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry -” <br/>“No, no, she didn’t…” She shook her head. “I had to give her up.”<br/>“I didn’t know that…”<br/>“I had a boyfriend back then, during the war. He was enlisted in the army, sent away to Germany. We wrote to each other during his time. And I… I know it was wrong, that I was awful to him, but… I fell pregnant to another man, while he was away. I was young and stupid.” She swallowed. “So, everybody knew it wasn’t his. There was a terrible outrage. Of course, when he came home a few months later, he was livid. My family turned their backs on me. And my child’s father wouldn’t marry me for honor; he fled practically at first mention of the news. So I had nobody to help me. The only refuge for a young woman in my position was the home for unmarried mothers and babies.”<br/>“Oh, God…”<br/>“Six weeks. That was how long they gave us after the birth, to decide whether we wanted to keep our children or give them up for adoption. It was supposed to be a free choice. But the ladies who worked there preached shame every day, told us we were dirty sinners for what we’d done and that we needed to repent. And I didn’t have anyone to help me, no way to support myself with a baby in tow. So they matched me with a couple looking to adopt. And that was that.”<br/>“That’s horrible… I can’t imagine, Brigid.” <i>well, i can imagine. quite vividly, actually, cos it nearly happened. fuck, nobody could separate me from her. not while i still breathe.</i> “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It’s hard enough being a mum, <i>without</i> everyone against you.” She meant that.<br/>To Sally’s great relief, Brigid tenderly transferred Gwen back into her arms, handing over the half-full bottle. Sally held her closer than ever, breathing a sigh of relief. <br/>“But life goes on, doesn’t it? There were some positives, in the end. After that I worked as a maid for a few years, live-in, and then I’d saved up enough to go get my degree, even if I was a little older than most of my classmates and people thought it was strange.” She put on a smile. “I’m glad that things are changing, these days. I think it’s gotten a bit better for women like us. Even if it’s still tougher than nails. Sally, I… Admire you, I really do.”</p><p>Mop handle in her hands, Gwen laid contentedly in her crib, all her coworkers now gone and having left the place silent, Sally’s eyes began to wander. In the quiet she was able to notice the restlessness within herself, a current running beneath everything. Despite her cautious, although growing, camaraderie with Brigid, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was under-utilized and underappreciated here - that rather than earning a place for herself, as she would have it, she was merely allowed one. She felt bad for admitting it - <i>i should be grateful i’m living now, and here, and not in one of those homes they put poor Brigid in </i>- but even a couple weeks of it had started to wear on her.<br/>It was hard for it to not feel like a demotion. The last she’d worked as a shopgirl was with Stewart Adams, before Dr. V and before she’d made a name for herself independently. And even there, she was able to work hands-on and learn as she did. Here anything she gathered about the differences between her trade in Wellington Wells and here - which were substantial enough - had to come from overhearing her coworkers’ conversations. She’d been hoping in time they would allow her more responsibility, even if it were technically against the rules. <br/>Fuck, how she missed working in the lab. Every night she passed the area of counter space that held the equipment the pharmacists used for compounding - creating those doses for customers who had special medical needs, for one reason or another. As most medicines came directly to them from the manufacturers, and the preparation on the part of the pharmacists most usually involved relatively simple changes like altering the dosage or route of administration, the equipment was rather sparing. It certainly wasn’t her home lab, that was for sure. <i>funny, i think that was the hardest thing to leave behind. </i>She winced to imagine what had probably come of it by now.<br/>Still, this all was considering only the things here that were kept out - perhaps, Sally thought with a twinge of excitement, there was more stowed away in cabinets and drawers for occasional, and more specialized use. <i>no, damn it. look at me getting all giddy thinking of touching lab equipment. i’ve told myself it’s a bad idea, that i should be focusing on other things now. only problem is the more i tell myself that the more i think about it!! ugh. </i>…Surely just a look wouldn’t harm anyone? <br/>Every night she passed the compounding counter, and every night she thought of how nice it would be if she was working with chemicals again - how the search for solutions to the problems that inevitably arose in synthesis totally involved her and gave her a thrill, made the hours fly by in a dizzying whirl of <i>purpose</i>. She missed it terribly. <i>maybe they’d say i ought to just be happy being a mother, and let that be what gives me purpose now. but i do! Gwen is the best thing that’s happened to me. she gives me all my reasons. still… i feel i’ll lose my bloody mind if all i’m considered good for is changing nappies and mopping floors.</i><br/>She was so tired of everything in her life being at the will of everyone else. Even here.<br/>The equipment, pristine and alluring, gleamed in the overhead lights. The temptation was overwhelming. She’d just… test things out a bit, make sure everything was working correctly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Starstruck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Back to Arthur's perspective! And a little check-in with Sally's view, in the middle. I think in some future chapters I will also use this method of intercutting the two into different passages in the same chapter, as the juxtaposition can create a neat effect, playing off one another.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>“Baby, watch out or else you’ll be ruined</i><br/>
<i>‘Cause once you’re addicted to wine and champagne</i><br/>
<i>It’s gonna drive you insane</i><br/>
<i>Because the world’s not so tame</i><br/>
<i>And you’re starstruck, baby, starstruck</i><br/>
<i>You’re taken in by the lights</i><br/>
<i>Think you’ll never look back</i><br/>
<i>Ooh, starstruck on me”</i><br/>
The Kinks, “Starstruck”</p><p>This was strange. This felt very strange, and he didn’t think for the better. Unwelcome, he might add. <i>What was the address again? Oh hell, Arthur, your memory has to be good for </i>something<i>. Come on, come on… Er, fourteen-hundred… Fourteen-hundred and what...</i><br/>
What had started for Arthur as a simple trip to the store on the corner to replace the loaf of bread he’d just finished had taken a rather unexpected detour, the groceries long forgotten now. He’d gotten barely further than the lobby of the hotel he was staying at before the first had recognized him: “<i>Hey! Aren’t you the fella who was on the telly yesterday</i>?” He’d stopped and chatted politely and might have taken the curious stranger as just an avid and outgoing Sunday daytime television viewer… If he wasn’t then greeted, on the street, by a slew of other men and women stopping and staring. “<i>It’s him!” “My God, it’s that Wellie!”</i> And then there was his face on every newspaper at every stand he passed, so that those who didn’t recognize him now soon would. It seemed like something out of one of his dreams. And yet, as far as he could tell, this was reality. He’d gone to bed one night thinking himself a virtual stranger in a vast city, and woken up with his name on the lips of everyone, so it seemed, who followed the news. It was too much.<br/>
His responses to his would-be accosters grew more and more brisk as he professed himself a lookalike and hurried away, knowing instinctively that the longer he lingered and gave any chance for word to spread around, the more likely it was his presence could end up causing some sort of a scene. He didn’t know what would happen if he’d allowed himself to be surrounded by people here, who knew who he was. He didn’t imagine it’d be good, though.<br/>
He moved with haste, trying to seem like just an ordinary man with important places to be and no time for interruptions. He kept his gaze low to the ground to try and hide his face, and despite not really having the familiarity with his surroundings to warrant it in normal circumstances, stuck to quiet, out-of-the-way streets as much as possible. It had taken well over two hours to reach South Kensington in this way, losing his way several times before he’d recognized the street that was home to Morgan’s flat, but it felt like it had taken even longer.<br/>
He finally remembered her house number. At least he hoped he did, because he was rapping on the door like a madman.<br/>
“Morgan?” He called, after a moment. “<i>Oh, God. Please be home,” </i>he muttered under his breath. “Are you there? It’s Arthur.”<br/>
The door flung open, his blonde friend standing there in her dressing gown.<br/>
“What’s <i>happened </i>to me?” Arthur demanded. <br/>
Well. It wasn’t really that he didn’t know <i>what</i> had happened, nor did it take much thought to figure <i>why</i>. What he couldn’t understand was how he hadn’t let himself seriously fear that it could. Morgan hadn’t told him exactly what he’d be doing until he reached the studio, and then she’d assured him it’d be safe, that nobody would really be watching anyways. It was just a matter of getting through the discomfort of that one interview, he had thought, and that would be that.<br/>
...He’d really walked right into this one, hadn’t he?<br/>
“<i>There</i> you are, Arthur!” She exclaimed, the pitch of her voice raising chidingly. “Goodness, you scared me with all that pounding on the door. Where have you been? I’ve tried four times this morning to ring up to your room. Why didn’t you pick up?”<br/>
He fumbled to shut to door behind himself. “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered with a mix of sarcasm and frenzy, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I’ve been a bit <i>busy </i>being <i>harassed </i>on the street by people who suddenly want to dissect every single thing about me!”<br/>
A grin bubbled over on Morgan’s face, beaming as though, despite him, she couldn’t contain her excitement. “I <i>know</i>, Arthur,” she began. “Isn’t it <i>amazing</i>?” Her eyes were practically sparkling.<br/>
“Amazing? You think it’s amazing? Were you <i>trying </i>to get me killed?”<br/>
“<i>Killed</i>?” Concern pressed her lips together. “Arthur.” She stepped forward, her voice soft. “Did you come all the way here by foot? You look as if you’re in a panic.”<br/>
“Well, how should I react?” He started to pace around the room. “At least back <i>there</i>, nobody noticed me. I could blend in. If I wasn’t wearing the wrong clothes. But I can’t take off my bloody <i>face</i>, can I?”<br/>
“Arthur, I know everything must come as a shock to you, after… after what your life must have been like, but please, you’re letting it get the better of you. Just slow down a minute...”<br/>
“You promised that… You didn’t tell me <i>this</i> -” he turned and gestured vaguely to the world outside, “would happen.”<br/>
“Well, I jolly well don’t predict the future, do I?” She took a deep breath and sighed it out, then, seeming to regain her patience. “Arthur, really, this is a <i>good</i> thing. I didn’t expect you’d... Oh dear, I should’ve called you first thing,” she fretted. “I could have warned you before you’d gotten so… I just thought you’d still be sleeping…”<br/>
He rubbed his face, hearing her but not really taking it in. “What am I going to do…”<br/>
“It’s alright. Listen, it’s going to be alright.”<br/>
“You made this happen, didn’t you?” He asked more quietly, the accusation in his tone breaking off. “Well, can’t you make it stop?”<br/>
“<i>Stop</i>? Heavens! You don’t know what you say… No, I wouldn’t think of it, even if I could. Arthur, don’t you recognize how incredible this is?”<br/>
“Incredible?” Arthur stared at her. “You really don’t understand this, do you?” He shook his head, answering his own question. “You wouldn’t. It’s not you they hate...”<br/>
She held onto his shoulders. “Arthur, nobody hates you. Nobody wants to hurt you.”<br/>
“They don’t?”<br/>
“No! They<i> love</i> you. All I’ve heard today is how much everybody wants more of you. You’re a sensation, Arthur.”<br/>
“Then why…” Arthur frowned, trying and failing to gather his thoughts. “I… But I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”<br/>
“You don’t believe me? Come here.” She led the way deeper into the living room, to the table beside her telephone, which held a clipboard filled with writing. “I’ve barely been able to keep up with all the invitations you’ve been getting. People want to see you, talk to you, hear your story.”<br/>
“Oh.” Arthur stared at the paper, looking at her neat, small cursive as if it were indecipherable ancient runes. He tried to process it, his mind weighing this new information. “But I don’t want to - I can’t do this, I have to…” He set the clipboard down and folded his arms. “It was one interview. That was the agreement.”<br/>
“Arthur…” She smiled sympathetically. “You still don’t see what luck this is, do you? The time couldn’t have been more against us. Nobody watches telly on a Sunday afternoon expecting to see anything Earth-shattering. I didn’t expect anything of it. But my phone’s been ringing off the hook half the night! Even more so this morning. Did you know they’re going to rebroadcast it? You’re in high demand! Everyone wants to see us - see you - so badly, they want to play it again tonight, and, they’ve told me, maybe even more times later into the week. The advertisers are all jockeying for position, bidding for the exposure...”<br/>
“They are, are they?” There was a tense silence as he put something together, and his eyes narrowed. “How much exactly <i>are </i>they paying you for this?”<br/>
She huffed indignantly. “That’s what you’re worried about, is it? Did you really think I wasn’t going to give you an honest share? What kind of girl do you take me for?” She picked up a slip of paper he hadn’t noticed lying beside the the clipboard on the little table, a cheque she’d apparently been writing, and thrust it out to him.<br/>
Arthur took it and gaped. It was at least as much as he’d have made in two whole months working in his cushy Department job, assuming the conversion rate had remained more or less equivalent. Maybe not a life-changing sum, but when he’d all but run out of money, it felt like he might as well be holding a million pounds. He could actually <i>afford</i> those groceries he was thinking of buying that morning, with that. “My God, Morgan, I didn’t mean give me all of it -”<br/>
She laughed. “It isn’t <i>that </i>much, is it? It’s half of what they’re giving me, so far. Your half. You were an equal part of the interview, after all - I think it’s only fair. There could be more royalties later, if they air it as much as they say they might.”<br/>
He mulled that over. “Well. Thank you…”<br/>
She smiled wryly. “I’m glad you feel <i>better</i> now. I suppose it’s just as they say. Money talks.”<br/>
Arthur flushed. <i>I must have come over as a real greedy bastard</i>. “No. No, it’s not that.” He shook his head reluctantly, holding the cheque back out to her. She wouldn’t touch it, though, and he was secretly relieved at that, thinking of the past days he’d spent practically living on room temperature baked beans straight from the tin and brown-bread toast sandwiches without the toast. “It’s… I can’t do this.”<br/>
“Why ever not?”<br/>
“I can’t stay here. I can’t keep delaying, I’ve got to find Percy…”<br/>
“Your brother?”<br/>
He nodded.<br/>
“But… Well.” She smiled sadly. He felt a twist of pain, imagining her next words. “Arthur, I do hate to say it, but… No matter what that entails, you’re probably going to need a bit of money.”<br/>
He raised his gaze cautiously.<br/>
She sighed. “You haven’t got to do anything you don’t want to. All that I’m suggesting is that this would be a great chance to save up a little, so that you haven’t got to worry about a roof over your head while you’re looking for him... It’ll probably be over in a week, in any event, and things will be back to normal. And the window of opportunity gone. You know how these things are.”<br/>
“But…” He exhaled, conflicted. <i>Arthur, tell her no</i>. He hated that he was considering it, but he had to admit she had a point. What was he going to do, in the meantime? How would he afford travel to wherever he might need to be? And… it was something he could hardly even imagine, but what of <i>after</i> all that? This would all be much easier if he had money. “I don’t know the first thing about how to do… <i>any</i> of this.”<br/>
“Oh, don’t be silly, Arthur. Obviously I’m not intending to just turn you loose all by yourself after this, you know, ‘nice knowing you, now good luck out there!’ I’ll help you.”<br/>
She <i>did</i> seem to know her way around these sorts of things. In a situation like this, he had to admit that was rather comforting.<br/>
Maybe she was right, after all. Of course, she had to be motivated by her share of the profits she’d stand to gain. But if he got his, did it matter? Maybe he could trust her, at least a little bit.<br/>
In any case, he wasn’t sure what his alternative was. His conspicuousness at the present was going to make anything he tried to do incredibly complicated, especially if facing it all by himself. And then what else would he do? Hole himself up somewhere until all the fuss died down? Surely it’d be over soon enough, like she said. People would lose interest. He’d just have to make the most of this situation.<br/>
“Besides, think of what good you could do, showing everyone what it’s really like in Wellington Wells! You’ll show everyone that you’re just like everyone else, dispel the rumors people think about how your people are heartless bastards,” she enthused, the worlds coming out breathlessly as she was restored to the sparkly-eyed enthusiasm she’d shown when he’d first stepped in, panicking too much to give it much thought. “And then maybe you can draw attention to the issues, get people to do something to save the people there so that they don’t have to suffer like you did. Arthur - think of it - together we could really help people.”<br/>
<i>You know, I hadn’t even thought of that</i>, he thought, humbled. The hopeful gleam in her eyes softened him, and the thought of all the people (<i>Sally…</i>) he’d left behind there, pushed him over the edge into giving in. “Alright.” He gave a small smile, genuine, if a little shy. “I’ll do it.”<br/>
She squealed with excitement. “Oh, I knew you’d say yes! You’re a good man, at heart. This is fantastic. I’ll help you get fixed up with everything you’ll need. We’ve so much to do.” She began rambling, half to herself. “You’ll need somewhere proper to stay, better than a little hotel room… There’s a luxury flat building just down the road from here. Private, so nobody even gets into the lobby unless they’re approved. Nobody should bother you there. At least, not unsolicited!” She raised an eyebrow suggestively and giggled. “Ah... And I’m guessing you probably haven’t got a bank account here. I can help you with that, if you need. And of course we’ll need to sit down and have a look at all the inquiries I’ve got, make decisions, and… Arthur!”<br/>
He stopped abruptly in the middle of draping his coat over the back of one of her chairs and looked at her as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.<br/>
“That’s the same suit I’ve seen you in the past… What, three times I’ve seen you? Haven’t you got any others?”<br/>
“Well… No.” He smiled sheepishly. “I mean, I’ve got an old one from back home, but it’s a little worse for wear, at this point. Think I had to pick myself up off the ground a few times too many. You can only do so much for mohair, once it begins to fray...”<br/>
She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Oh dear, that won’t do. We’ll have to go get you some new clothes!”<br/>
“Really? Today?” He glanced in the direction of the door. “But what about…?”<br/>
“Yes, today is just perfect for it.” She peered out of the window, pushing back the curtains, and looked over her shoulder at him. “It’s a real pea souper out there this morning, isn’t it?” She flashed a grin. “Nobody will think anything of it if our faces are covered.”<br/>
“Ah! Clever…”<br/>
Morgan glanced at the phone, and only then he realized it was ringing. He wondered if it’d been doing that the whole time and he just had been too distracted by everything else to register it.<br/>
“I know what we’ll do. Would you care for some breakfast? I’ve got some eggs in the fridge. You can help yourself to anything, really. I’ll take care of some calls while you do, and then I’ll get ready. And then we can go shopping!”</p><p>“What? Don’t you want to look sharp?” Morgan stood behind him in front of the mirror, hands on her hips.<br/>
“No, course I do. Looking sharp is one thing. But this… I don’t know what this is. Experimental?” He held out his arms, examining the sleeves, and then checked his reflection again. He was modeling a rather bold two-toned shirt, one that Morgan had insisted he try on. It had a stiff dagger collar tacked down with little triangular black buttons that looked pointy enough to have someone’s eye out. The left front panel, from the shoulder seam all the way to the hem, was a deep crimson, but the other half was a pale cream colour.<br/>
“It’s <i>modern</i>,” she countered. “I think it’s delightful.”<br/>
“It’s rather asymmetrical, though, isn’t it? Lopsided.” His hands went to the collar, checking the fit there with his fingers. “I rather like something more balanced.”<br/>
“Trust me, people are going to love it. Red is really your color. It’s so deliciously <i>dangerous.</i>”<br/>
“I thought we were supposed to be championing the rights of the Wellsian people. I’m not sure if the look I’m going for is <i>dangerous</i>,” he protested, but a faint smile crept onto his lips. It wasn’t all that bad, really. He was coming to like how he looked in these new clothes. There was a sort of... new identity in them, which he had to admit held a certain allure. He’d kept up with style while living in the Parade District, like a good Wellie, but he never deviated too far from his work uniform. Although he’d been a little unsure of himself modeling Davy Hackney’s designs when he’d needed a favor at the fashion institute, he felt fairly comfortable in what they’d picked out here. Morgan actually had a good eye for sleek, simple pieces that suited him well. Even though he couldn’t put it out of his head that Sally would’ve done it best.<br/>
“You like it, don’t you?” She grinned.<br/>
“It’ll do,” he agreed cheekily. “If you say so. I’m putting my trust in your informed advice.”<br/>
“As you well rightfully should.” She studied his reflection again. “Mm... Might need a little tailoring, taking in some seams and little things like that. We’ll get that sorted soon enough.<br/>
Arthur nodded. “Who knew being on the bleeding edge of style was such hard work.”<br/>
She laughed. “Well, thanks for humouring me. Perhaps that’s enough for now. What time is it, anyways?”<br/>
“It’s half past three,” came the voice of a familiar man who had wandered into their secluded little corner of the shop, right outside the changing rooms. Morgan whipped around at his voice.<br/>
“Graeme! How <i>are</i> you? Fancy meeting you here.”<br/>
“Oh, but I’m always here, aren’t I?” He yawned. “But, well, you know. Got to find something to wear to my sister’s third wedding.”<br/>
“Really? I thought it was only her second?”<br/>
“No, two divorces, three weddings. Two baptisms.” He scratched his head. “One funeral.”<br/>
“Oh! Right. This is the one who faked her death. I remember now.”<br/>
“Mm-hm. I’ve got practically a whole separate wardrobe dedicated to all the ceremonies and things she’s gotten me to come to, over the years.”<br/>
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you reused a suit or two.”<br/>
“Hmm. But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to be here, would I?” He shrugged and then peered past Morgan. “Hey, it’s Arthur! Nice seeing you again.”<br/>
Arthur waved at him.<br/>
“Looking swish. I heard about your big interview yesterday. You’re really on the up-and-up, aren’t you?”<br/>
“Oh, yes, well, it was nothing. She’d asked me to help her out, so, er, I did.”<br/>
“Oh, don’t we all? Hard not to do anything she asks, with that way of hers.” He laughed. “But - say, why didn’t you tell us all you were a Wellie?”<br/>
“Well, I… I suppose I didn’t know how you’d react.”<br/>
“Ah, Arthur, Arthur.” He clapped a friendly hand onto his shoulder. “We’re an open-minded lot, we are. You don’t have to fear for telling us anything.”<br/>
“Thank you.”<br/>
“Arthur?” Some other visitor to the store, a man he didn’t recognize, popped out from behind a clothes rack, apparently having overheard the conversation. “Arthur Hastings? The Wellie from the telly?”<br/>
“Yeah! Um, thanks for watching!” He still hadn’t quite figured out what to respond with when people said that.<br/>
The exchange had apparently caught the attention of a lady in the distance, who looked up abruptly from the dress she was examining. “<i>He’s </i>here?”<br/>
Uh-oh. This didn’t look good. <i>Damnit, maybe we shouldn’t have taken off our smog masks… The shop owner assured us we’d have this corner of the store all to ourselves and there wouldn’t be any trouble… That he was used to dealing with clients who were “in the public eye,” and his other customers showed nothing but respect…</i><br/>
“Arthur, how did you stand living in Wellington Wells all those years?” A question eagerly burst forth from the fold, which seemed to be assembling at a rather alarming pace.<br/>
<i>Apparently I must be an exception.</i><br/>
He cast an uneasy glance towards Morgan; the world felt as if it were starting to bend. She gave a smile probably meant to be reassuring, although she herself seemed surprised and a bit unprepared to greet all these curious onlookers.<br/>
“<i>Why</i> did the Wellies send the children?”<br/>
<i>Couldn’t have picked an easier one, could you</i>? Arthur opened his mouth as if to attempt an answer, and then closed it. It wasn’t exactly something he could tie up neatly in a phrase or two, and certainly not under these conditions.<br/>
Luckily Morgan seemed to sense his growing unease and the need to take action, stepping in between Arthur and the group of onlookers. “Everybody, your interest is much appreciated,” she spoke in a loud, clear voice, as if she were his lawyer advocating his right to not comment, “but my client is not taking questions at this moment. If you want to learn more about Arthur’s experiences in Wellington Wells, I would encourage you to tune in to his interview tonight, and other forthcoming appearances.”<br/>
Unfortunately, her declaration seemed to do little to quell the interest of the people, who were piling in, looking over each other’s shoulders to try and catch sight of him. <i>Just me, or is it starting to get a bit… tight in here</i>? He took a step backwards and realized with horror he was backing up against the wall.<br/>
“Morgan, this is bad.” His voice was hushed but strained with urgency enough to hear over the din.<br/>
“Don’t worry,” she reassured discreetly. “They’ll go away once they realize there’s nothing to see here…”<br/>
But the questions kept coming. It was getting harder to make out individual ones now, but he still could make out the odd fragment.<br/>
“...true that Joy was developed to make people forget the children?”<br/>
“...no young ones there, what did you do with all the schools?”<br/>
“Well I’m not exactly interested in sticking around to test that theory!” Arthur replied to her.<br/>
He reached behind himself, feeling for the doorknob to the fitting room. He tried it once, and then with more force, trying to jam it open with his whole arm. <i>Fuck! Did it lock up on me?</i><br/>
“Morgan, we’re liable to get crushed to death like this! We’re like… bloody rats in a cage...”<br/>
“Don’t be silly,” she admonished, though Arthur swore there was uncertainty in her voice, trying to reassure herself along with him. “They’re still <i>people,</i> not a stampede of cattle. They wouldn’t just… just trample us. They’re only trying to get a look. They’ll stop yet, when they’ve had their fill…” She turned to the crowd again, speaking firmly, diplomatically, holding out her arms. “Please, I ask that you all be so kind as to provide us some space. I understand you are all terribly excited, but let’s have some order and calm down, everyone.”<br/>
“They’re not going to listen -” Arthur countered, exasperated.<br/>
“There’s… There’s not too many people. Just a bit of a crowd...”<br/>
“Precisely. Which means we have to go, <i>now</i>. There’s still holes in the crowd; we can get through. Trust me on this one.”<br/>
“But -”<br/>
“I’m not staying any longer.” He stepped ahead of her, scanning the crowd, finding an opening, and starting towards it immediately. He knew he’d have to work fast, before they caught on and maybe tried en masse to bar his passage, so he started forging his way through, pushing through as was necessary. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as he passed by, feeling guilty even now. He doubted they even heard him over the even more urgent tide of questions and comments that followed his movement. “Excuse me. Terribly sorry.”<br/>
“<i>Arthur!</i>” He heard Morgan’s voice over the crowd, or at least thought he did. It sounded strangely far away, and it couldn’t help but echo in his mind, a twinge of regret mingling with fear. It was enough to make him hesitate, craning his neck to look back.<br/>
It was fortunate he was so tall. He spotted her only a few feet away, following.<br/>
“Lead the way!”<br/>
Relieved, he pressed on, sensing her behind him. At his back, she formed a barrier, forcing away would-be accosters who were quickly reacting to the change in the crowd’s flow, turning around on themselves to follow the two of them. Surprisingly, she seemed less genuinely apologetic about it than he was, like she was relishing the excuse to take charge. “Do pardon us!” She chirped, affecting an exaggeratedly saccharine tone.<br/>
With some effort, and not without his share of being knocked into, Arthur managed to clear a path through for both of them. They burst through out onto the street, where the throng was much less dense, although definitely concentrated around the entrance of the shop. It seemed like most of the whole block in fact had been drawn there; once they made their way out, the street ahead of them was thankfully clear.<br/>
“We’re running,” he heard Morgan’s voice beside him, and he wasn’t sure if it was a complaint or merely an observation.<br/>
“Yeah,” he agreed, glancing over his shoulder. As he’d feared, a few of the onlookers had decided to follow after them. “If you haven’t noticed, it seems we’ve managed to draw a tiny bit of attention!”<br/>
“Isn’t this incredible?” She laughed breathlessly, her face flushed with adrenaline and her shoes clomping on the sidewalk as she kept pace beside him. “We’re running, Arthur! We’re being chased by a mob of mad fans. D’you know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?”<br/>
<i>Fans. </i>He peered at her incredulously. “You’re not seriously <i>enjoying</i> this, are you?”<br/>
“What? You don’t enjoy a little bracing exercise? A little run to stimulate the senses?”<br/>
“I don’t know - it’s starting to get a bit <i>old</i>, by… by now. Maybe you wouldn’t find it so funny if you were used to running for your fucking life!”<br/>
“Touché,” she acknowledged lightly. “Well, it’s paid off. You’re a natural.”<br/>
“I used to do it,” he panted. “In high school.”<br/>
“Do what?” She teased. “Run track, or be chased by mobs of girls?”<br/>
“They’re not all girls, are they?” He glanced again.<br/>
“Well, okay. Maybe sixty, seventy percent. Maybe they fancy you, Arthur.”<br/>
“I don’t know <i>why</i>,” he complained, sounding, even to his own ears, morose and self-pitying. “Shit. This would be so much easier if I <i>was</i> still in high school. I wish I were wearing my track uniform instead... I didn’t know how good I had it.”<br/>
She snorted. “At least you’re not wearing heels!”<br/>
“Touché.”<br/>
She burst into a fit of giggles again, laughing and trying to catch her breath at the same time.<br/>
“You’ve lost your mind, haven’t you, Morgan? Gone right off the deep end?” He asked, but there was something oddly infectious about her mood, and before he knew it, he was laughing along with her. He wasn’t sure if it was actually out of enjoyment, though, or just sheer fear and disbelief at the absurdity of it all, or maybe that funny almost-euphoric feeling you got at a certain point after you’d been running for a while, or all of the above. But… maybe it didn’t matter. It was nice, at least, to have someone with him this time. <i>We’ll laugh about this later... Or now’s fine, too.</i><br/>
“Oh, come on. It’s fun. You’re having fun, too. I can tell.”<br/>
“I’ll have a lot more fun when we make it out of this!” He checked behind them again. “God, they’re not gaining on us, are they? How are we going to lose them?”<br/>
She pressed her lips together. “We probably shouldn’t stay on the main street. We’ll draw too much attention this way.”<br/>
“Hope you know your way around here better than I do…”<br/>
“Oh, but that’s not as important as just getting them off our trail. Once they give up, then we can worry about navigating.”<br/>
“Yeah. Until they recognize me again, and it starts all over again.”<br/>
“Goodness, I didn’t expect it would be <i>like this</i>. We’ll really have to be more careful in the future, won’t we?”<br/>
“If you don’t want me dying of a heart attack. Then yes.”<br/>
“Oh, come on. You’re still young, aren’t you? You’ll be fine.”<br/>
“I hope so.”<br/>
“Look, I’ve an idea. What if I caused a distraction? We’ll round the corner here, and you can sneak down somewhere hidden, and I’ll pretend I’m chasing you too and lead the girls in the other direction. Then when they’re off I’ll slip away and come find you.”<br/>
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to split up?” He hesitated. “You’ll be alright?”<br/>
“Ha, of course I’ll be alright! I think I can handle a few fans. Will you?”<br/>
He nodded. “Yes.”<br/>
“Alright, that’s what we’ll do, then. Move quick - here comes the turn.”<br/>
“Morgan?”<br/>
“Yes?”<br/>
“Thank you.” Mustering up a last rush of energy, he pushed on ahead of her and ducked down into the first alley he saw. He found a comfy little space beside a rubbish bin, and leaned against the wall, catching his breath.<br/>
He didn’t know what to make of all this. Did they love him, or hate him? Morgan said she thought more than anything they were <i>curious</i>.<br/>
It wasn’t as if he had no frame of reference for this, like he’d never heard of how people acted around celebrities. Celebrities. God. It still felt entirely weird to consider himself like that. It didn’t feel like the right vocabulary, but what other words could one use? He’d certainly never expected people would ever react to <i>him</i> like <i>this</i>.<br/>
This wasn’t unlike, he thought with a laugh, how people acted around that most illustrious of Wellies, good old Nick Lightbearer. The crowds that would gather for each of those convention thingies, and how some of the women seemed - he found it so strange - to both completely adore and resent the pop singer. But that was just the closest analogue he could think of. He thought this, whatever people thought of him here, wasn’t quite like that either, and it was all new for him.<br/>
He startled again when he saw a figure moving in the obscurity. It was, he realized when she got closer, a lady who - apparently - must have snuck down into the alley quietly enough to not be heard. And on what hunch, he had no idea. He’d heard all the others be led away by Morgan.<br/>
Well, at least he’d thought it’d been all of them.<br/>
<i>Okay, Arthur, don’t panic. It’s just one person. Surely you can handle this tactfully</i>.<br/>
“Arthur, is that you?”<br/>
“Oh, um…” <i>Well, actually, easy mistake. Would you believe you’re about the tenth person who’s asked me that today?</i><br/>
<i>No, actually, but I’m flattered. I’m just your average bloke who likes to hide beside rubbish bins. He went the other way, I think.</i><br/>
<i>No, no. You’ve got me mixed up with my brother… Oh God, no, not that one again.</i><br/>
<i>Well, come on, Arthur, pick one, won’t you?</i><br/>
Taking his silence as a yes - well, who was he kidding, it was probably too late anyways, she’d already recognized him - she continued. “I just had this feeling you’d be in here. Oh, please don’t run away. I want to talk to you.”<br/>
He was frozen in place as she approached, finally stopping with just about a head between them. “Is that… so?”<br/>
“Yes. Gosh, you look even better up close...”<br/>
The feeling of his hair sticking close against his forehead told him otherwise, but it was dark there in between the buildings, after all.<br/>
“Why thank you. Um. Always great to meet a... fan!” Fuck, he was bad at this.<br/>
“Arthur… I know this is going to make me sound like a loony, but... ever since I saw you in the interview yesterday, I felt like I knew you. I know how sudden it is, but I just knew I was yours entirely, ever since then.” <i>For a whole… let’s see</i>. <i>Twenty-four hours, then.</i> “I promise, if you let me be yours, I could make you so happy…”<br/>
<i>Well, I may be no good at this. But at least I’m not the one tracking people down and cornering them in dark alleyways. </i>“Well, ah, what can I say - um - that’s very… flattering, to say the least, yes, how kind… but I don’t exactly think it’s a good…”<br/>
She leaned in closer, and Arthur swallowed hard. “I heard a silly rumour, a while ago, about… the drug,” she whispered, surprisingly (for all her audacity) sounding a bit shy, hesitant. “I couldn’t help but wonder. Is it true, that Joy causes you to…?” Her eyes flicked downward, and he followed her gaze with alarm.<br/>
“Um!” He blinked, gently picking up the hand he’d just noticed she’d decided to rest on his chest and giving it back to her. “No, er, positively no truth - I can assure you I’m perfectly -” he sidestepped away from her, “<i>normal</i>.” Was that to his credit, or not? Maybe he should have let her finish. Oh, chrissake, it didn’t matter. He started quickly backing out the way he’d come, deciding he’d take the chance of getting recognized again. “Just like, yes, like any other… Person. Wow, would you look at that? I think I just saw a, um… Somebody important-I-should-be-meeting-now-thanks-lovely-meeting-you.”<br/>
On the run again, it seemed. Though he hadn’t checked to see if she was even following. He’d hope that a person in their right mind would be too embarrassed to, after that, but… What was it about being <i>the Wellie from the telly</i> that made everyone else seemingly forget how to act normal?<br/>
He heard a car horn beside him on the street, and he groaned. <i>What is it </i>now? He picked up his pace, futilely trying to outrun whatever motorist it was whose attention he’d caught.<br/>
He winced as they honked again, blaring for a couple seconds this time. He slowed to a stop, defeated, and decided to see who it was.<br/>
“<i>Morgan</i>? How’d you…”<br/>
She opened the passenger door. “Heaven’s sakes, just get in -” not waiting, she reached out and practically yanked him in herself. He slid into the bucket seat and looked around the unfamiliar car interior as Morgan reached across him, scrambling to close the door he was too stunned to shut himself. He was on the one side, and on the other side, at the wheel, was Graeme. “Graeme?” In that moment, Arthur couldn’t have been happier to see him.<br/>
“Nice you could join us,” he acknowledged with a smirk.<br/>
“I’ll say!” Morgan concurred adamantly. She was sandwiched between them, in the middle and holding a large, handled paper bag on her lap. “I was dreadfully worried when I didn’t see you where I thought you’d be, Arthur.”<br/>
“Heh, sorry… I got kind of tied up.”<br/>
“I knew you wouldn’t be expecting us like this… Isn’t Graeme a darling? After it cleared out in the store, he went right into action to be our getaway. He found me on the street pied-pipering the fans away and I could’ve cried for how glad I was.”<br/>
“Oh, it was nothing. I just figured you two could use a ride…” he replied casually, though he was clearly enjoying the attention.<br/>
“He even thought to save the clothes we’d worked so hard picking out, isn’t that right? See?” She tilted the bag towards Arthur; sure enough, there they were, folded up neatly.<br/>
“Ah.” He tugged at his shirt regretfully, the fancy two-toned one he’d been trying on. “I ran right out of there with this on, didn’t I?”<br/>
Graeme laughed. “Think they can forgive you for that one, under the circumstances, no?”<br/>
<i>Well I’ve stolen far worse. Doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad about it, though.</i><br/>
Morgan shook her head. “Never mind that. Me and the owner go far back. I’ll call him up later and we can settle the bill.” She looked at her nails. “Though really, he ought to pay <i>us</i>. He’d assured us privacy. And we gave him good exposure, no?”<br/>
“Ha…” He settled his head against the seatback, sighing. “Well, I’m just happy we made it out of there.”<br/>
“Oh, yes. I knew everything would work out, anyways. Somehow.”<br/>
He raised an eyebrow at her.<br/>
“You are a woman of unparalleled optimism, Miss Stone,” Graeme chimed in.<br/>
“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” She smiled easily - tired, but content. “Everything’s falling into place,” she mused, vaguely. “Nothing can stop us now.” She turned to Arthur, her cheek resting against the leather upholstery. “Arthur, why’s your face so flushed? ...What <i>did</i> happen, after I left you?”<br/>
“Well…” He shook his head. He had a feeling they’d just laugh, if he told them. “I was running, wasn’t I?”</p><p>The secret, it turned out, was in Phlash. Yes, Phlash, the Wellsian street drug that was supposed to make you run and walk at a faster pace. No, it wasn’t in Joy, which Sally knew to be a distant cousin of the very same German military amphetamines which themselves were quite similar to what the all-night partiers used today - although she did inevitably draw somehow on the Joy innovation in her current recipe. ...And, it wasn’t in Go Go Juice, either - another promising lead, but she found it impossible to figure a use for any of its key ingredients in any formulation that would avoid the horrible withdrawal.<br/>
It was, on the whole, a deceptively simple enough pharmacological problem. She was sure that one of her old tricks, combined in a new way, would work - she just couldn’t think of what, at first. The issue had hooked her in entirely - something she’d both feared and longed for - until she couldn’t sleep at night, staying awake and searching for an answer. But, on the third or fourth day after she’d first indulged her desire to “test” the compounding equipment at her work, the answer came to her, as it always did.<br/>
She’d not made Phlash much, back in the Old Country - it was a rather uncomplicated drug, but there was little demand for it. Its stated purpose was for getting out of places, and fast, but who would need that but a rotten Downer? Of course, in a pinch, it was also used by some hardworking and glamorous types, models, musicians, and other Parade-dwellers, as a sort of pick-me-up. The effects weren’t exactly the same as your average stimulant, though, as Phlash on its own didn’t actually do much to wake you up - it was sort of a funny effect that made your thoughts, whatever they were, good or bad, go unbelievably fast. Not to mention its biological half-life was laughably short, in its standard formulation. For ye aforesaid rotten Downer, it could require keeping quite a few on hand to evade a gaggle of Bobbies, and trying to dry-swallow pills when you were running for your life wasn’t much fun.<br/>
That was why it had taken her so long to even think of it, but it was also what had intrigued her. It was a weak drug - the more common the drug, the weaker it had to be, because so many of them relied upon chemicals that were found and harvested from nature, or else common household ingredients. Of course, if you were like Sally, and knew what you were doing, you could use such herbal ingredients to make things that were often just as potent as anything else. But even then, there were limits to how far botanicals could go - even with the best equipment she could get her hands on to extract and refine, it wouldn’t always be the purest form you could get.<br/>
On the Mainland, though, where all of the country’s most advanced pharmaceutical science didn’t go into keeping up with Joy demands, and the job of doctors was actually to cure patients’ ailments, it was a different story. Nearly all drugs were manufactured, and that meant a great deal of their components were synthesized human-made and laboratory-pure.<br/>
Sally recalled that the main active ingredient in Phlash came from the versatile Night-Blooming Nonsuch. She wasn’t quite sure if those grew anywhere here, or if they were native to the island - but it didn’t matter. They were part of a related family of plants that all contained some slight variant of the same chemical. And she’d managed to get her hands on one such derivative chemical, in its raw form - actitinoin.<br/>
This may have been a happy accident, utilizing this rather than the Nonsuches themselves. It seemed to solve the issue of Phlash’s apparent short-lived effects.<br/>
The end result, looking at it simply, was a pill that was based strongly on this Phlash-based chemical, with some selective isolations from the amphetamine pills themselves to produce some stimulant effects which actitinoin lacked, and then there was just the slightest touch of Joy. It was a rather benign and widely-available ingredient in the wonder/horror drug cocktail that made up Joy - nothing that caused any amnesia, or dissociation, or hallucinations, or anything near true euphoria - just a little bit of “bright-and-shiny” to help combat the potential for a bad experience, should someone take this new formulation in a poor mental state that could otherwise end up getting amplified. Her formula made the mind undeniably clearer and, like Phlash, work faster. It lasted longer than the commercial amphetamines, from what she could tell. And, the most important thing: because of its basis in actitinoin, there was no comedown, and, from all indications at this stage: no significant side-effects, or at least nothing high on Dr. Kirlew’s list of the dangers of amphetamine.<br/>
And she’d named it not after any of its inspirations but from the one she hadn’t been able to crack. A plain-and-simple name for a drug that was surprisingly rather plain-and-simple itself. She decided to call it Go.<br/>
But where to go with Go? That was the question. Yesterday she’d found a few people to test it, discreetly chosen out of some of the familiar visitors to the pharmacy - although she was quite confident from her experience working with the component parts of this new drug, of its efficacy, she’d committed to staying drug-free herself, for Gwen. She administered it just in small dosages at first, and then she let her first clients, if she could call them that yet, take it in the dosage that they would use for their typically. They needed less - and she’d had to adjust the formula a bit, minor tweaks to get it just perfect, but the resounding result from the newly converted was unabashed enthusiasm. And the fact that it was actually rather cheap to make, she imagined, would also be quite popular among them.<br/>
This was all done in secret, of course. And despite her conviction that she was doing something good, that she was helping these people use something that would be less harmful, less likely to cause dependence and health issues of both the annoying and potentially long-term debilitating kind, she couldn’t help but feel guilty, and worry that she was making a bad choice.<br/>
But, on the other hand, this could be a way to provide a better life for her and Gwen. She didn’t know, sure, how she could go about registering and promoting such a drug through the official channels, and she wasn’t sure if she could exactly ask Dr. Kirlew for help. Maybe she wouldn’t mind that she’d used the equipment after hours - after all, she hadn’t been <i>explicitly</i> told she couldn’t do that, and it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission... but she might not like the idea that she’d been giving it out to testers, under her nose.<br/>
Sally was more familiar with the... less official ways of getting her product out there, though. And that, in and of itself, could also be a way to truly provide a better life for her and Gwen, as odd as the idea might sound. If it went well, she could make more than her modest shopgirl salary provided. She’d get to do work she truly enjoyed again - to do what she knew best. She’d be important and feel like people needed her here. All while helping others with her innovations!<br/>
She was giddy at the possibilities; she chastised herself for considering them. So much could go wrong; so much could go right. The matter wouldn’t let her alone, try as she might, until she’d felt certain that maybe she just might be able to take on any complications that could arise.<br/>
The truth was, there was a lot she could stand to gain. And to think it had all come out of an odd little performance enhancing drug that made people run fast.<br/>
Arthur had used to run, hadn’t he? Or possibly, he still did, for all she really knew about his life since he’d screamed her out of his family’s house. Though she was sure any official races had to have ceased long ago.<br/>
But she remembered it now - she used to go to some of his track meets sometimes. He liked it when she did, she thought. He’d wanted to impress her, maybe.<br/>
And she supposed he did. She had to admire the dedication he’d shown. He’d close his eyes and appear to truly be giving it his all. Performing for her, perhaps, in his own way.<br/>
After the races were over at the first few she’d been to, he’d been a little shy with her. He didn’t want his friends teasing him, maybe. But as they grew closer he seemed to put that aside; the opinions of everyone else faded into the background, and besides, many of his peers started discovering girls themselves and had their own sweethearts waiting for them on the benches. It didn’t matter what place he’d made (he always complained he never could beat that blasted… ah, whatshisname) - it quickly became custom that practically no sooner than he’d crossed the finish line he’d seek her out wherever she was standing and greet her by wrapping her up in a big embrace.<br/>
As far as hugs go, perhaps it wasn’t the way most girls would dream of being held. It was rather sweaty, for one thing, although Arthur was always clean to a fault. Her head would rest on his chest by necessity - he was getting rather tall at that point, and she’d never followed him in that - and she could hear his heart pounding, feel the adrenaline as an exhilarating current between them.<br/>
Arthur was always a clingy sort of hugger. He’d bow his head down, resting his chin on your shoulder and hold onto you as if at any moment you’d be taken away from him. She’d practically have to wrestle her way out of his grasp, laughing all the while.<br/>
Now she was wishing she would’ve held on a little longer. It was sometimes simple enough, even after all the Joy, to remember what something <i>was like</i>, but harder to really remember how it felt to <i>be there</i>, to emplace yourself fully back in some forgotten moment. She wished she’d somehow known to take the time to record every little detail of one of those scenes, to hold onto them as dearly as Arthur seemed to hold onto her. He was usually pretty rubbish at it when he tried to talk about his feelings directly (and besides the excuse he’d made to be close to her after the meets, he was always so bashful about any displays of affection), but she realized he often made himself perfectly clear in his actions. She realized that he was speaking to her, then, in those hugs. What she’d give to go back and dissolve into one of them just one more time. To go back and remember what it was like not knowing what the future would hold, without the weight of the past 14 years on her shoulders.</p><p>Arthur could just get used to this. Stretched out on an antique chaise lounge in silk pyjamas, his head propped on a pillow and a book in his arms (a <i>book</i>! When was the last time he’d gotten around to reading one of <i>those</i>?), a cup of good, rich tea on the low table beside him, to its side a tin tray spread with a couple halved scones and some strawberry jam. A light patter of rain against the window beside him, the fading light coming in from the crack of the heavy curtains supplemented by the warm glow of a lamp somewhere above his head.<br/>
Morgan had got this flat fixed for him, mostly, had sorted out the arrangements, though he’d been up to see it once to confirm if it would be, in her words, suitable for his needs. More than suitable, it was. In fact, he’d been a little embarrassed to look upon it; he’d told Morgan he didn’t need something this nice, that any ordinary place would do. It was just him living there after all. But she’d insisted, had tried to convince him an up-and-coming young man like himself deserved a place befitting of that, and that more importantly it would be able to offer privacy, even if his location sooner or later might fall into public knowledge (the hotel he’d been staying at had been besieged after word got out he’d been there). It had felt a bit strange staying here the first night or two - so funny it was to go from sleeping in musty beds in underground shelters to <i>this </i>in what must have been less than a month - and there was still part of him that said he really didn’t <i>deserve </i>it, but he had to admit after everything it really was nice to have such a comfortable place to lay his head. It was only a temporary situation, he told himself. He and Morgan had set out to win-the-hearts-of-England-help-the-Wellies-and-make-a-quick-profit, all in a week’s work. Well, maybe it’d take something more like a fortnight. But he’d be surprised if he stayed here all that much longer than that. It’d all die down soon enough and he’d move on - he had to. Why shouldn’t he enjoy it while it lasted?<br/>
It wasn’t a big flat, not that he needed much room, but it had all the basic trappings of modern convenience. Of course, his own flat in the Parade hadn’t been so bad as he remembered it. Unless the Joy had made it seem better than it was, it was decently stylish and modern, and it had every must-have for a Wellie of his standing, though he really couldn’t recall how exactly he’d spent the time in there, besides to sleep, and shower, and get himself ready. There was something more elegant about this place, though. It had four main rooms: a bedroom and connected bathroom, a modest kitchen, and what was the sort of combined dining and living space that he was currently in, all furnished rather handsomely, if a bit sparsely and lacking any “lived-in” feeling. Any personality it had came from the minimally ornamented style of the furniture. There was a white settee perpendicular to the chaise, upholstered with the same velvety sort of material. There was a bookshelf, which was empty, although now he had one or two books he could place there. There was even a hi-fi system, although all the knobs and controls rather overwhelmed Arthur and he’d hardly touched it out of fear of breaking something, and he didn’t have any records, anyways. But how was that for a bachelor pad, eh?<br/>
It also was convenient that it was barely a five minute walk to Morgan’s. He’d been working with her a lot the past days, picking through the high volume of choices they had to make regarding his emergent public life, discussing what would be smart, and what to avoid. What would be worth doing, and what to pass up. And Morgan had been taking him to meet all sorts of people, some of them media people who they’d be working with, and some, it seemed, just friends of hers. He’d thought it would be unpleasant, but he enjoyed it more than he thought. These people generally were not unkind to him, and some even reacted to him with awe and reverence. He chastised himself for finding that feeling of importance a little intoxicating.<br/>
They were going to do more interviews, in order to help quench the public’s overwhelming curiosity into all things Wellington Wells and Arthur’s former place in it. Several television shows had contacted them with offers for appearances, and magazines were eager to be the first to publish an official feature. The first of these continued interviews would be tomorrow.<br/>
But he had the night to himself, here. He’d been spending a lot of the in-between time, in the past few days since he’d moved in, in this flat. There wasn’t much anywhere else to go, if it wasn’t related to what he and Morgan were working on, and even in disguise he felt wary of going out into the public unnecessarily. So when he wasn’t working he was in here, biding his time and yes, he supposed, relaxing.<br/>
He’d almost thought he’d forgotten how to relax - even at Mrs. Donahue’s, despite the warm welcome, he hadn’t been able to fully let his guard down. But in the company of no one, with most of his most immediate needs satisfied, and feeling safe, he could begin to unwind just the slightest bit. When he felt himself nod off to sleep, he didn’t fight it.</p><p>He was moving. At least, he must have been, because in the darkness he could see, just barely, the stone walls of the tunnel scrolling by. It was… yes, it was a fast, rolling movement,  occasionally rocking and jostling back and forth. And above the constant rumbling sound of wheels chugging on endless miles of track, he could hear hushed noises from those who were still restless. He could hear, from scattered points around himself in the narrow goods van, the occasional sniffle and small whimper as someone adjusted their position, trying in vain to get comfortable. Past the point of open panic for now, those who weren’t yet too tired from despair were consoling themselves with quiet sobs. Somewhere far behind him, a girl quietly sang a lullaby that had apparently been for her younger sister but now must have been rather more for herself.<br/>
They were children of all ages; as he looked around Arthur recognized faces that were in the same year as him in school, that he’d grown up with all his prior life. Many around that age had younger siblings that they’d attached themselves to firmly, now, suddenly having to take on a caretaker role that was far too heavy for children who were themselves no older than twelve. In the seat across from him, Arthur saw a family from his neighbourhood which he’d often stayed with for dinner. The eldest brother was still awake, his younger sister and baby brother, who couldn’t have been much older than three, were curled under his arms. With them asleep, Arthur could see his façade of self-assurance and bravery that he’d used to comfort them slip, a tear rolling down his face and catching in the dimmed overhead lights.<br/>
“<i>Arthur?</i>” Came a whispered voice next to him.<br/>
“<i>Arthur!</i>” When he didn’t respond.<br/>
“<i>What?</i>” He responded, voice low. He turned and looked; it was a boy he knew well, from impromptu neighbourhood cricket games in the summer.<br/>
<i>“Your uncle… You had an uncle what went to Germany, didn’t you?</i>”<br/>
“<i>Yes.</i>”<br/>
“<i>He… He didn’t come back, did he?</i>”<br/>
“<i>Well… No. Not yet.</i>”<br/>
“<i>Do you think he will?</i>”<br/>
“<i>Well, I don’t know. We haven’t heard from him.</i>”<br/>
The boy leaned closer, as if what he was about to say shouldn’t be spoken aloud, but he had to know. <i>“Do you think they’re going to kill us?</i>” His voice trembled.<br/>
Arthur paused. “<i>No,</i>” he reassured. “<i>I don’t.</i>” He nodded toward the bag at his feet. “<i>If they were bringing us all the way there, just to kill us, why would they ask us to pack our belongings?</i>” <i>For the comfort of the parents,</i> the pessimistic side of him could’ve imagined. But the poor kid seemed distraught enough as it was.<br/>
“<i>Maybe they want to take our things and sell them. Or give them to their own children.</i>”<br/>
“<i>It couldn’t be worth that much.</i>” Arthur fidgeted idly with the hem of his sleeve. “<i>We’re far enough from home now; if they wanted us dead they would have shot us already. The Germans wouldn’t waste the fuel.</i>”<br/>
The boy shivered, even though it wasn’t cold. “<i>Then what do you think they want with us?</i>”<br/>
He tilted his head. “<i>Probably they’ll put us to work.</i>”<br/>
“<i>Work where?</i>”<br/>
“<i>I don’t know. Factories maybe.</i>”<br/>
“<i>But I don’t want to work at a factory… I’m only ten. I’ve got to go to school. Mum said she wanted me to finish school. She couldn’t, ‘cos she had to stop going to help her family, but she wanted me to.</i>”<br/>
“<i>I don’t want to work in a factory either.</i>”<br/>
“<i>There’s got to be some way we can stop them… If we all acted together they couldn’t do anything to us.</i>” He looked around. “<i>Are we just going to let them take us? Why haven’t we put up a fight?</i>”<br/>
“<i>Because there’s that big man that keeps checking on us and telling us to keep quiet. Besides, we’re on a train. What can we do?</i>”<br/>
“<i>We could scream. If we all screamed loud enough, someone would hear us and help.</i>”<br/>
“<i>We’re in a tunnel.</i>”<br/>
“<i>Obviously I meant </i>after.<i> When we’re aboveground again.</i>”<br/>
“<i>In the middle of the countryside, you mean? Who will hear us? Cows?</i>”<br/>
“<i>You don’t know what’s out there!</i>”<br/>
“<i>You’re right.</i>” He sighed. “<i>I suppose I don’t.</i>” Softening, he added, “<i>I like your idea. Really. Maybe we could resist them, if we pooled our efforts. But… What if it goes wrong? If it doesn’t work, the… the consequences could be much worse than… whatever we’re headed for.</i>”<br/>
“<i>You sound like my parents. When they were arguing with my aunt who said, </i>why don’t we just fight the jerries, why would we roll over and let them do this to us without a fight?”<br/>
“<i>Will you two come off it?</i>” A perturbed but still-hushed voice came from the seat in front of them, a boy twisting around to look at them. “<i>All I hear is </i>poor me, boo-hoo, I don’t want to go to Germany. I’d rather be at home with mummy, wetting my bed every night.<i> Well sometimes you haven’t got that choice!</i>”<br/>
Arthur blinked, a little offended, at least on the behalf of his seatmate and his schemes, his wide-eyed optimism in the face of oppressive fear. “<i>Is it so unnatural to be afraid? At a time like this? None of us knows where we’re going; nobody knows what we’re going to do or what’ll happen come this time tomorrow.</i>”<br/>
“<i>We should be proud of the opportunity to serve our country. It’s like my dad said. My big brother went off to fight in the war and he’d expect the same of me, if I were old enough. But this is my way, just like him, to show I’m a man and do my duty for the homeland.</i>”<br/>
“<i>But what if we’re not serving our country? Arthur thinks we might be going to work in their factories!</i>”<br/>
“<i>We’ll do what we’re told and we’ll face it with bravery, and dignity. It’s our small sacrifice to protect our families at home. By taking us, they’re sparing them.</i>”<br/>
<i>Percy. Thank God he’s safe at home. Who knows what they’d do to him here...</i><br/>
“<i>But that’s not right! We shouldn’t be the ones sacrificed! Nobody should have to sacrifice themselves,</i>” Arthur’s seatmate declared, his voice rising and drawing the attention of the other passengers. “<i>This isn’t right, none of it is -</i>”<br/>
“<i>Quiet! Quiet, or they’ll…</i>”<br/>
“<i>I won’t take it, I won’t -</i>”<br/>
There was a dull clunk ahead of them, the sound of a body moving in the passage from one van to another.<br/>
“<i>Shh! You’re going to make them…</i>”<br/>
“<i>We’ve got to stop them… We’ve got to stop them before it’s too late</i>.”<br/>
The shadowy figure worked his way towards the loud little boy who was by now causing quite the scene.<br/>
<i>It’s already too late.</i><br/>
Arthur watched in horror as the man seized the child. A large hand moved as if to cover his seatmate’s mouth, and he screamed.</p><p>Arthur woke with a start. The living room was draped in blackness, except for the lamplight which stung his eyes.<br/>
<i>It was supposed to be me</i>.<br/>
He didn’t bother to check the clock after he scrambled to a sitting position, barely registering it as the book he apparently had still been clutching to his chest tumbled to the ground. He leaned over the endtable, bringing the number he’d written on a pad closer to his eyes and dialing it, waiting and listening.<br/>
“‘Ello? Who’s this speaking, then?” Arthur recognized Vinn’s voice, heavy with sleep, on the other end, only because he stood out among Morgan’s friends in this part of London by the decidedly Cockney flavour to his lilt.<br/>
“It’s Arthur. Would you pass me over to Morgan, please?”<br/>
“Oh! Arthur. Um… Alright. Hold on.”<br/>
Arthur heard Morgan’s voice faintly over the line, at a slight distance from the receiver. “It’s Arthur? My, but at this hour? Has something gone wrong?”<br/>
“I don’t know,” Vinn answered her with a yawn. “You want to speak with him, then?”<br/>
“Of course.” He heard the receiver change hands, and then Morgan’s voice was closer. “Hello? Arthur? Is something the matter?”<br/>
“Morgan. About that deal we made…”<br/>
“Hm?”<br/>
“You don’t suppose you could squeeze me in for that meeting with your brother you promised me, could you? The one in the government?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Have a Go</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ever wanted to know Percy's middle name, Arthur's shoe size, or the reason the Germans asked for the children? Well then, this may be the chapter for you! :P</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sally had acquired a small but enthusiastic consumer base here on the Mainland, and the most devoted among them was a young man named Maxwell. Maxwell had bright, wavy ginger hair, and glasses with thick frames in a bold white colour that still managed to stand out against his rather pale skin, which was dappled heavily with freckles from his nose to his ears. He had a bit of a baby-face and a left arm which was somewhat limp and hung a bit differently at his side, compared to its partner. He was friendly and, Sally thought, he seemed to be a bit of an eccentric somehow. She hadn’t managed to figure out exactly what he <i>did</i>, but he apparently had a frankly reckless abundance of money to spend on her product. She hadn’t expected to be challenged to keep up with demand in her very first week of business, but there was no one so enthusiastic among her original testing group as him. <br/>So it was Maxwell that she was walking out into the cold night air to greet tonight, pulling her coat tight around herself. She was getting used to them - these sorts of meetings with clients. She’d set them up just about every evening this week, outside DPK’s once she’d all but finished all the closing tasks and would soon be heading home. A simple transaction, and they’d part ways as quickly as they met.<br/>Except Maxwell was a talkative sort. <i>here he comes</i>, she thought, as he veered around the corner in his moped scooter, spotting her by the back entrance that employees used, dismounting, and bounding over to her on foot. She knew already to mentally prepare herself for a long chat. She didn’t mind it so much, but it could be hard to have the energy after a long day of looking after the needs of practically everyone but herself. “Hi, Max.”<br/>“Hello yourself!” He greeted as he approached, practically screeching to a stop right before she thought he might crash into her. “Thank you for taking me on such short notice. You’re a doll. Have I told you how much I love your formula? ‘<i>Only about a hundred times, Maxwell</i>.’ Yeah, yeah, well. Did you know I can actually <i>enjoy food</i> on your stuff? I can actually manage to eat; it’s fantastic! I can’t tell you how many times I practically passed out before, because I thought I could just keep going forever and ever…” <br/>“Oh no, well we don’t want that, do we?” She held out a small paper bag to him. “Good thing for you I’ve got your prescription all filled,” she reassured with a charming smile. <br/>“Ahh, fantastic. Thanks, doc. Big night tonight. I’ll take some of these and call you in the morning.”<br/>She laughed. “Remember, a little goes a long way. I was wondering why you needed<i> all</i> these?” She questioned, teasingly. “You had me working my arse off today, you bugger!” <br/>“Hm? Oh, no, no, they’re not <i>all</i> for me. I intend to share. I’m going out tonight and I want the whole world to know about your fab little Go pills. I’ll be sure to tell them I got them from this mad little shopgirl bird that works with chemicals like no other I’ve seen.”<br/>Her eyes widened - her immediate reaction was embarrassment. “Really? Oh, Max, you don’t have to do anything like that…” She bit her lip, thinking it over. She hadn’t really figured out yet how she was going to reach any more people, besides the few customers she’d identified out of DPK’s clientele to be her first testers. If he spread the word out, though, that could draw the attention of a whole new customer base just waiting to be tapped. She had to admit the idea was exciting.  <br/>“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing at all. I simply feel it would be a tragedy if nobody else knew about this wonderful stuff. That is…” He slowed down. “If you’ll grant me permission, Sally? You do want to increase your business, don’t you?”<br/>She weighed the matter again, making considerations (she’d have to scale up production if it worked, and that meant sourcing more raw materials and figuring out how she’d fit in the time for it all…) before giving her confident approval. “Yes. You can give them my number. Just don’t put it out that you got them <i>here</i>.” She indicated toward the building behind her. “I’ll handle directing them.”<br/>“Fantastic. That’s what I’ll do, then. I’ll gladly talk you up - least I can do when you came up with such a wonderful invention. I’ve already got a whole pitch thought up in my head. ‘<i>Feeling slow? Have a Go!</i>’ If only you could see me deliver it.” He smiled fondly, quite proud of his idea, she thought, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Although… Where are you headed, tonight? Perhaps our paths just might cross.”<br/>“Nowhere. Just home.”<br/>“Really? Not at all?”<br/>“Well, it’s kind of hard to go out when you’ve got a baby.”<br/>“Oh! Right, right. Yeah. Well, you could always get someone to mind her for an evening.”<br/><i>yea? like who? </i>“I suppose.”<br/>“How is she doing, then? The baby.”<br/>Sally didn’t get the opportunity to answer. She was distracted by the sound of a car door shutting, and when she saw who had gotten out and started toward them at the back entrance, she froze.<br/>“Dr. Kirlew! What a… Lovely surprise!”<br/>“Miss Boyle,” she acknowledged.<br/>☒<i> Act naturally</i><br/>Sally tried to regain her composure. “What’s called you back here, at such a late hour?”<br/>“I just realized that I had left some important papers on my desk.” She slowed to a stop in front of the two of them, her gloved hands clutching her bag in front of herself. “What are <i>you</i> doing out here, with your…?” She narrowed her eyes.<br/>“Loyal patron!” Max supplied brightly, apparently sensing Sally’s fear and stepping in. Sally discreetly shot him a look, silently asking what he was doing, but he smiled. “Don’t you remember me, Doctor? I’m always here. Maxwell.”<br/>Dr. Kirlew did seem to recognize him, then, but the uncertainty in her eyes didn’t go away.  <br/>“Sally was just helping me. I left my wallet here earlier today. Can you believe that? I was in a right panic. It would have been a disaster had I not had that, tonight. I rung up the place as soon as I noticed it, though, and wouldn’t you believe it? Sally was my saviour. Hold on to this one, Doctor, she’s an angel.”<br/>“I was just finishing up closing,” Sally added. “I was just going to give him what he needed and then lock up, and be on my way.”<br/>“I see.” Dr. Kirlew’s suspicion seemed to abate, then. “Well, I’ll only be in and out. I promise I won’t disrupt your work.”<br/>“Thank you,” Sally deferred, her voice barely above a murmur as the door swung open and Dr. Kirlew went inside.<br/>“Phew. Close one, that was, wasn’t it?” Maxwell observed.<br/>Sally let out a sigh. “I suppose you’d better get going,” she suggested, glancing at the door. “If you linger she’ll start to wonder what’s…”<br/>“Yes, yes, of course. I understand. Oh, but let me just pay you, first. Is a cheque alright this time?”<br/>“Yes… But really, Maxwell, I can wait. You can pay me next time, yes?”<br/>“Goodness, I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s far too much money for me to feel right leaving you without. I don’t like leaving anything unsettled. I’ve got it already written, it should be with me here, somewhere…” He leaned and set the paper bag she’d handed him on the ground so he could feel in his coat pocket.<br/>“Alright. Just… Please don’t take too long.” She winced.<br/>“I won’t, I know I’ve got it here…”<br/>Sally glanced at the door again.<br/><i>shit. shit shit shit. </i>She’d been so busy, getting Maxwell’s order prepared on time that… <i>i didn’t get to put</i> <i>away -</i><br/>Maxwell looked up, triumphantly holding out the cheque, for a second before his grin failed. “Sally? What’s wrong? You look like -”<br/>The door creaked open behind them.<br/>“Miss Boyle, you really ought to be more conscientious. Were you about to lock up without tidying up the compounding counter?”<br/>Sally’s blood went cold. She turned around. “Oh, I forgot to mention. That was the last thing I had left to do. One of the girls forgot to put away what she was working on, so I was going to take care of it before I went.”<br/>Dr. Kirlew held up a plastic bag filled with the white powder form of actitinoin, which Sally had left out with her other ingredients. “That’s strange. I don’t remember any of my girls employing any formula mixing levoamphetamine with… What <i>is</i> this?”<br/>“Baby powder?” Sally tried, innocently. “I haven’t a clue…”<br/>Dr. Kirlew sighed. “You can’t lie to me, Sally. I know you know better than the others do; I know you outpace many of them in their talents. You must think I’m proper clueless if you think I haven’t noticed… But I didn’t think that you’d have come to <i>this</i>.” She looked at Maxwell, who, frozen, only then thought to lower the cheque he’d been holding. “Selling illicit drugs in the parking lot of my pharmacy?”<br/>“It’s not what it looks like. It’s not some sort of… Dr. Kirlew.” She smiled (she hoped) persuasively. “I apologize that I hadn’t told you about it until now, but I developed a promising substitute for amphetamines. Its mechanism is similar, but it avoids the common risks and side effects and operates at a reduced dosage. No dramatic withdrawal period, either.” All true so far. “It’s to help those who are dependent - heavy amphetamine users - break their habit,” she embellished smoothly. That part was a bit more debatable.<br/>“It’s life-changing, Doctor, it really is,” Maxwell chimed in eagerly.<br/>“You’d said you wanted someone to solve the amphetamine problem, didn’t you? If my research is correct, this could truly be the solution!” Sally felt an irrational hope well up inside of her. She wanted Dr. Kirlew’s approval, even though she felt that to win it in this matter would be impossible.  <br/>“It’s brilliance, Sally. I have no doubt about that.” She half-smiled. “But it’s dangerous brilliance. And I won’t have it anywhere near my pharmacy.”<br/>“I’m not profiting off of anything at your expense. All the raw chemicals I sourced myself. The only thing I’m using is the equipment. And I make sure everything is cleaned and put away properly every night…”<br/>“You don’t understand. I’m not about to get mixed up in this… this scheme. How did you - how did you <i>do</i> it, Sally?” She blurted, sounding on the verge of exasperation. “You’ve hardly worked here and you’re developing new drugs? What research have you really done? How have you tested it? Perhaps that was acceptable where you’re from, but not here.” <br/>“I know perfectly well what I’m doing…” <br/>“You astound me, Sally.” Dr. Kirlew placed a hand on her hip and gazed at her with a contradiction of admiration and disdain. “How a woman can come from Wellington Wells not even two months ago and act so… Audaciously. As if you worry not what others think.” She shook her head, lost in her thoughts for a moment before she continued. “I was just a child when my family came here from the riots in Kingston, and do you know what? Even from that very moment I became aware that no matter how much people claimed our society was past such blemishes, there would be… for example, the sort of people who would come into my house as a guest and assume I was my husband’s <i>maid</i>. The pressure was instilled in me long ago that I had to be more English than the <i>English</i>. And yet I had every advantage in my favour! My father was one of the most prominent doctors in the country. And still I felt scrutinized. I do not know, Miss Boyle, whether to envy you or scorn you.” <br/>Sally thought this over, considered the perspective, humbled. <i>have i really come across so ungrateful? so... audacious? perhaps it’s careless that i’d act like this when this job’s been the reason for my independence. yet i just had the strangest feeling going into this that everything would go alright. what good is a life lived on tenterhooks, forever? maybe… ha, maybe Artie has the right idea after all, in a horrid sort of way, by just diving right into it. he’s given himself a headstart in… in… exposure. </i><br/>“I promise you, I wouldn’t be doing this if I were not convinced I were doing something truly important, and good for me and my daughter.” <br/><i>in any case, it’s only going to be for a little while. with people like Max buying, i could earn a proper living in this hostile world. and then, soon enough, toys and clothes for Gwen, nice ones, and books once she’s old enough. she’s going to shine so bright, i know it. and then we can buy a house of our own... </i><br/>She stood a little straighter. “I believe it’s worth it.”   <br/>“Do as you will, but not in my pharmacy. I’ll give you this warning and no more. You’ll cease here all of these… operations you’ve established, or I will have to bid you leave.” She handed Sally the bag of powder she’d confiscated and then re-balanced her own bag of possessions in her arms. Her stance made clear, Dr. Kirlew set off. She took a few steps towards her car and then looked over her shoulder, adding:<br/>“And I don’t want to do that, Sally, I really don’t.”<br/>Sally felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, but it came less from any dissolving of her resolution and more from her guilt for disappointing her boss. <i>my god, Sally, you can’t stop using people to get ahead, can you? first Stewart Adams, and then… then the General, and now Dr. Kirlew, too. </i>Only that wasn’t true, was it? It was survival.<br/>“You didn’t tell me you’re a <i>Wellie</i>?” Maxwell blurted no sooner than Dr. Kirlew had stepped into her vehicle.<br/>Sally shot him a look.<br/>He held up a hand. “I - well - I’m half-Wellie myself!”<br/>She raised an eyebrow. “What?”<br/>“Yeah. Honestly, Sally, I am. On my dad’s side.”<br/>“Really? When did you…?”<br/>“Well, I’ve never been there, of course. I was born here. I’m too young to have… Well, you know. Popped in for a visit.”<br/>“You’re not missing anything,” she observed wryly.<br/>“How’s it <i>like</i> there?”<br/>“Oh, it’s just fantastic. When you do go, you simply can’t miss the wondrous sight of the ten-meter tall robot Headmistress zapping Downers to death in the middle of the city squares. Be sure to stop in to the Garden District for a little local flavour, to see the quaint half-demolished houses and the rustic dud bombs. Make an afternoon trip to Ratholm to view the exquisite atmospheric conditions of near-total smog. While you’re there, why not join one of our many fabulous cults?”    <br/>The humor was mostly lost on Maxwell. He smiled. “Everyone’s talking about that man who’s been on the telly, talking about living in -”<br/>“I know.” <br/>“Good for him, I think.” Maxwell frowned. “I’m so tired of hearing that we ought to be… Quiet about it. That it isn’t ‘polite’ to discuss it openly. ‘<i>Maxwell, don’t talk about such things. Your classmates tease you enough as it is</i>.’”<br/>Maybe the Mainland wasn’t all that better than Wellington Wells, Sally mused, when it came to acknowledging the things which were difficult to talk about.<br/>“Well, I can’t say I’m exactly… Proud of it.”<br/>“Perhaps you ought to look at it in a different way. It’s not the fault of any of us, what happened. Perhaps it’s a mark of… Resilience. At least, for you, since you lived there.”<br/>She sighed. “Maybe. But Dr. Kirlew…”<br/>“Maybe she’ll come around.” Maxwell tilted his head. “Give her a while to think about it, think of what she’s passing up.”  <br/>“I don’t know why I keep getting myself into trouble.”<br/>“Well, it’s got you this far, hasn’t it?”<br/>“Yes.” She laughed half-heartedly. “Only I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do now.”<br/>“You’re not thinking of giving it up, are you?” Maxwell asked, alarm suddenly in his eyes.<br/>“Well, I can’t make Go anymore without using my resources in there, can I? I’ve got to figure out how I’ll do it.” She tapped the side of her mouth thoughtfully. “Do you think they sell chemistry lab equipment on hire-purchase?” She joked.<br/>“I’ll buy it for you. Whatever you need.”<br/>She shook her head. <i>no. </i>She knew what this meant. Once someone like Maxwell started being kind to you, he’d be liable to think you owed him something. He would use it as a leverage against her. And she wouldn’t go there again. <br/>Maxwell appeared to be, she hoped, a brilliant marketer, and she’d accept his help in that if he gave it freely and of his own accord. But this, no. “Really, Maxwell, that’s alright.”<br/>“But - but you can’t stop making Go now… Not when…”<br/>“I’ll figure something out,” she reassured. She could - and would. She was sure of that. She’d already made a modest sum from Go. And if that weren’t enough, she’d easily find some way of convincing whoever she needed to.   </p><p>“So, tell me, Arthur,” Claude began, picking up the bottle of red wine from the small, circular table and pouring a glass for each of them, “how did you meet my sister?” He showed the whites of his teeth.<br/>“Well…” Arthur took a polite, patient sip of the wine. He hadn’t come here to enjoy himself by any stretch of the imagination; he had rung up Morgan, gotten a time and address from her, and made his appointment at Claude’s flat, with one purpose in mind. But if there was one thing he’d learned about getting by in life, it was that one had to tolerate such pleasantries gracefully, even when he had questions burning on the tip of his tongue. “It was at the Public Record Office. I was looking for some documents and she was at the desk next to me. She invited me to a gathering at her flat, that evening.”<br/>“Ah.” He chuckled. “She’s always been quite the enterprising type, hasn’t she?”<br/><i>What exactly was he implying?</i> Arthur didn’t know how to respond. “She’s very good at her work. Yes.”<br/>Claude leaned back languidly in his chair, the picture of contented amusement. He was older than Morgan, and he appeared perhaps a few years older than Arthur himself. “Yes. My baby sister had always had stars in her eyes. Always entertained the idea that the whole world was watching her. That she’d leave her mark, for the better.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, Father didn’t think so.”<br/>“No?”<br/>“Oh, never. He’d narrowly been convinced to pay for her university, even though he didn’t understand what his daughter could possibly need such an education for. You see, because he thought she’d soon be under the care of another man.” He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t speak with her much these days, so you’ll have to enlighten me, but I don’t suppose that’s happened yet, no?”<br/>Arthur watched Claude uncertainly, not sure what to make of him - whether he agreed with his father or not. He’d always been disgusted, himself, by men who thought things like that. “Er, no. I don’t believe so.”<br/>“Right. Well. Old Dad always has been most… traditional. He hardly believed me when I told him I myself went to uni with many bright young ladies, and that many of them thought there was more to life than just being married off. So when Morgan chose a… career, things were never really right between the two. She was all but cut from the family, in the end.”<br/>Arthur’s brow furrowed in concern. “You don’t say?” <br/>He nodded. “Only stayed close with our grandfather, Mum’s side. When he passed, he’d written her into his will exclusively. Lucky girl.”<br/>“Ah…” Arthur chose his words carefully. “That’s not why you’re not close, though, is it?” <br/>“No.” He scoffed. “None of that. I have my own reasons.” He straightened and shook his head, apparently wanting to leave the matter. “Yes, well, in any case. She told me you were looking for information on Operation Prodigal.”<br/>“That’s right. I’m from Wellington Wells, originally, and…”<br/>Claude grinned. “Oh yes, I know,” he purred, patiently. “I’ve seen all your interviews. It’s a great pleasure to be working with London’s most illustrious ‘Wellie from the telly.’”<br/>“Of course.” Arthur forced a smile. “I’m looking to find what happened to the children, where they ended up. My brother was on the train to Germany.”<br/>“Mm. I see. The Wellsian Authority Project, as we refer to it formally, split up quite a few families… I’m sure that you must have wished terribly that you had been young enough to go with him.”<br/>Arthur swallowed. “Yeah.”<br/>“Well. I have some information for you, then. About the children. I was just a young lad myself when I first began working in foreign intelligence, and they were on the tail end of that operation, then, wrapping it up, but over the years I’ve heard more than my share about it. You might not be happy with all of it, but I’ll share with you what I know.”<br/>Arthur braced himself. He was ready.<br/>“When they first started the operation, back in ‘49, it would’ve been, everything was… Well, to put it lightly, a mess. Nobody knew what was going on or what exactly they were looking for, to be quite honest. Or even if it were true! Many, I’ve heard, in those early days, weren’t willing to believe such a rumour, and so progress was stalled by internal disagreements. This was all while the poor man in charge of handling relations with Wellington Wells desperately tried to get in touch.”<br/>Arthur nodded in recognition. “Yes, yes. I remember reading about that. I found a document about Wellsian relations at the ‘PRO.”<br/>“Ah. So then you’ll know how difficult that had proved to be. But your people weren’t the only ones giving us a pain in the arse. Germany was hardly receptive to our inquiries. So, for the longest time, we never even knew why they’d taken them, or… If there even <i>were</i> children still waiting to be rescued, at that point.” He held Arthur’s gaze, and Arthur returned it steadily. <br/>“But! That’s why we turned to the Russians, didn’t we?” He added, wryly. “...I’ll let you in on the secret that we’d have probably petitioned them much sooner, if we hadn’t been too proud to. Though of course, we don’t <i>call </i>it a matter of pride, do we? It’s always some sort of excuse.”<br/>“You mean, if you’d gotten the Russians involved early, you’d have found the truth sooner?” He frowned. The long delay in investigation hadn’t exactly set things up for a happy ending, he worried. <br/>“Quite possibly.” He pursed his lips.<br/>“Well…” Arthur shifted in his seat uncomfortably, needing to know more. “What did they tell you, then, with the Russians facilitating?”<br/>“We were eventually put in touch with a certain, er… Colonel von Stauffenberg. He identified himself as the German officer who had organized the Authority Project. I heard, from those who dealt with him, that he was so strangely calm in justifying his actions. He revealed to us what was the purpose of the whole affair.”<br/>“He did?” Arthur’s heart couldn’t help but race. Here he was, about to hear what, as far as he knew, no ordinary Wellie ever heard. What, maybe, even General Byng had never heard.<br/>“He stated that the seizure of the children had been, in short, a test of his power. Wellington Wells was a rather desirable military outpost for the Germans, of course. It was a key to defending their closure of the Port of Bristol, shutting off critical shipments to our country. It was speculated what more could be done to secure their stronghold. Asking for the children, at least at first, had been… A test, to see how far you were willing to go. How fully surrendered, indeed, that you were to their authority.”  <br/>Arthur couldn’t accept, obvious as it may have seemed, that the motive had been so simple. That the children would be displaced from their homes for such a small, cruel purpose. A chess piece in the military game. <i>That was it? To see if we’d put up with it? </i>He couldn’t help but return to the refrain that had haunted him, or that he had haunted himself with, ever since he confronted the truth that submitting to German authorities perhaps hadn’t been inevitable for his parents’ generation, that there were multiple ways this history could’ve been written: <i>...And we fucking let them?</i> <br/>“But if that’s true,” he asked, “then why didn’t they return them? Once it was over?”<br/>“They never intended to send them back.” Claude rested his hands on the table. “Because, in their vision, the Wellsian islands would never return to what they once were. When they found the seizure to be an… overwhelming success, the implications were that Wellington Wells was ripe for the picking. The Colonel had much bigger goals in mind. He thought that with the population properly demoralized by such a humiliating concession, they could take even fuller possession of the islands and their people. You could be more easily put to work in capacity for the occupying military. You would fully accept German political rule, and figureheads could be appointed to simulate self-government. There were even suggestions that more <i>room</i> be cleared for occupying forces. You Wellies were a little more densely populated than they’d have liked, and despite your docility as a people, some apparently still caused trouble. They had suggested remediation efforts centered on reducing and controlling your population. Best way to avoid any possibility of a costly uprising, after all, is to ensure you’re not outnumbered.”<br/>Arthur blanched. <i>They were going to fucking kill us off… </i>He sat in silence for a moment before his mind returned and then firmly settled upon what was most important - the reality of the situation, and not its hypotheticals.  <br/>“But the children?” Arthur pressed. “Surely they had some… purpose in mind, for them? Where did they end up?”<br/>“Oh, don’t worry. They didn’t kill them. As far as we know, none were harmed. It was quite ironic - von Stauffenburg was adamant that, considering his plans for the fate of Wellington Wells, he was doing a merciful deed. Sparing the innocent children. A true humanitarian, after all.” He laughed bitterly. “But no, it wasn’t like everybody thought, that they were putting them to work, or anything nasty. They made up a few buildings, rather a bit like orphanages, and they became institutions to hold, care for, and eventually even educate the children. These became more permanent than they had intended, but eventually, after the war, they started transferring them to private homes, adoptive or else foster care. When we found them, this way, they seemed well-clothed, fed, and healthy.” <br/>And the hope which Arthur had kept alive in the depths of his chest, like a sheltered candle threatened at any moment by the gale that raged outside, flourished. His words bubbled out in an eager jumble. “You mean - so they’re - you found them? You really did?” <i>He could’ve led with that!</i><br/>“Some of them.” He smiled sadly. “But it wasn’t so simple. When we’d finally gotten clearance to, we’d sent people out to go to as many of these places, where the children were able to be identified as residing therein, and made contact with a few that had already reached adulthood as well. But what we found was… Most were not so impressed, as we might have hoped. It didn’t help that we couldn’t yet, or, as it turned out, ever, promise a return to their families, with Wellington Wells closed off entirely. All we could offer was a return, finally, to England, to live with some willing family that had volunteered to adopt the ‘lost children.’ But many of them, the younger ones who were scarcely toddlers when they left, barely remembered their real families in any event. Many couldn’t remember what it was to be English; many couldn’t even remember <i>English!</i> So disconnected they had become from their heritage. They had been brought up German, for so many years, seven or eight, at that point. Many considered themselves wholly German. So the prospect of returning to their mother country, uprooting from what they’d known, was none too appealing for a great number of them.”<br/><i>But Percy wasn’t young when he went. He would’ve been... the oldest there. He wouldn’t have forgotten, would he?</i><br/>“Still… Some did return,” Claude continued. “It wasn’t a very large number, I believe only in the tens, among those we were able to locate and speak with, that desired to return to England, but for them we did what we could.”<br/>The idea that maybe, just maybe, Percy could be among them right now - that he could be so <i>near</i>… That the two of them could practically bump into each other in the busy street… Arthur felt lightheaded thinking about it. <i>You don’t know he would’ve wanted to come back</i>, he tried to argue with himself. <i>Well, maybe not to </i>you, he countered. <i>But that wasn’t an option, anyways. But who’s to say he wouldn’t have missed the country, if not the people?</i><br/>“Funny, you know. I’m not sure who the sod was that decided to call it Operation Prodigal. The idea was that Wellington Wells was like the sniveling, repentant Prodigal Son, coming back to the mother country after making some lamentable choices, and we’d be its sole saviour. Couldn’t have been farther from the reality. Especially since you lot hadn’t wanted anything to do with us, besides get some help out of us for your ruined infrastructure.” <i>Maybe that’s how we were able to rebuild so fast and afford all our gadgets to boot. </i>“But in the strangest of ways, it became an apt title, albeit in a somewhat different sense of the word ‘prodigal.’ The operation bled money from the beginning, with all the pains taken at different levels of negotiation. All the damage that we ourselves had sustained from the war, and then to take upon such an expensive endeavour, too, even if widely called for by the public? After we found most of the children uninterested in returning, we decided it was best to let the whole embarrassing matter die down quietly, let people who still cared believe whatever they wanted to believe, and not draw attention to our failure. So that’s how that story ends.”<br/><i>And where this one begins. Possibly.</i> “You don’t think you could do me a favour, could you? Are there... files, about the children they found? Do you have access to them?”<br/>Claude seemed to know where this was going. “I… suppose I could try having a look. I wouldn’t get my hopes up, though, if I were you, Arthur. Like I said, not many were persuaded. But I can try.” He fished a small notebook and pencil out of his shirt pocket. “What did you say his name was?”<br/>“Percival. Percival Alger Hastings. Might have just called himself Percy Hastings, though.”<br/>Claude wrote the name down in the book and replaced it in his pocket. “I can do it, Arthur. Though it’s not an easy task, even for me. Even though you know I’m thrilled to do what I can for such an important man as yourself.” There was a sort of suggestion in his eyes.<br/>“Right. How much?” Arthur had some money to spare, now; he’d sacrifice every penny if it meant even a chance of seeing Percy again. <br/>“Oh, no, I don’t want your money, Arthur.” He laughed and flashed him a winning smile. That brand of smile was one way in which he was not unlike his sister. “The favour I ask in return,” he enunciated, resting his hand on Arthur’s knee, “is a bit more… Personal.”<br/>“Oh.” Arthur reached for the glass that he’d barely touched. If that were so, he was going to need a bit more of this, he thought.<br/>“You’re just what my friend and I are looking for. Stylish. Charming. ‘In.’ You’ve got the look, and the popularity to match.” He considered Arthur, a belaboured scan from head to toe. “What’s your shoe size?”<br/>Arthur paused mid-quaff, puzzled. He swallowed the red wine and answered. “Um… Eleven.”<br/>“Eleven? Well, what do you know - mine too. You know what they say about us men with large feet?”<br/>“...Yeah?”<br/>Claude took his hand away and leaned back in his chair easily, a relaxed smirk upon his lips. “We’re very tall.”<br/>Arthur set down the glass, uncertain. “So we are.”<br/>Claude laughed, amused. “If you wouldn’t mind helping my friend, I’ll gladly help you. He’s been looking for someone popular among the ‘youths of today’ to appear in a few advertisements for his company. I suppose he had some singer, or movie star in mind. But I think you might just fit the bill perfectly... Have a go at it and see.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Wild for Wellies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sally certainly wasn’t reading this magazine just to look for news about Arthur. Of course not. She definitely hadn’t seen it on a rack at the corner store earlier and bought it on anything more than a whim.<br/>No, she was just… having a bit of a sit-down in her armchair, killing an hour while Gwen slept and she was waiting for her next appointment. Maxwell’s <i>Have a Go</i> “campaign” had been quite effective after all, and in a few crazy days she’d managed to sort everything out rather satisfactorily. She was able to relocate Go production to her own home, and she had a system, now, which had streamlined the process. She still met with customers as she had been, to conduct the actual transactions, but these took place a quick walk down the street from her flat. She felt (especially after the horrifying encounter back in Wellington Wells, with the Blackberry addict who had hallucinated a rat in the place of her child) that it would be best to be cautious about whom she allowed to know exactly where she lived. And she always brought her knockout syringes with her - just in case. Even if her clientele seemed harmless, a girl could never be too careful.<br/>So it was nice to have moments of quiet like these, to give her sore feet a break and relax with something to read. Just to catch up on what was happening in the world. That was all.<br/>She browsed through the glossy pages, pretending, to herself, to read through the articles on fashion and fame, even though her eyes were hardly more than scanning over the words. It wasn’t as if she was worried at all - that would be ridiculous. Sure, she’d heard about the mobs of people, the public scenes that London’s favourite Wellie had caused. But he’d chosen that for himself. If he got himself killed, well, that was just his problem, wasn’t it, and... <br/>When the magazine finally landed on a two-page ad spread with who else but him presented before her, her heart absolutely did not skip a beat. <br/>…Well, alright, maybe she could admit it, she was <i>curious</i>. But that was all.<br/>In full color, there he was, the unmistakable face, the long, lanky body that was emphasized by the camera angle, stretching practically from the top to the bottom of one page. He was posed dynamically, seeming to be leaping right towards the viewer. Actually, he was leaping into a puddle in a city street - the ad leading the eyes to its focal point, the bright orange just-below-the-knee rubber boots he was wearing.<br/>He had a smile on his face, but something about it seemed a little uncomfortable, or at least uncertain - just a touch of tension around the eyes.</p><p>
  <i>Everybody’s Wild for Wellies!</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And the fab-est of all the wild, wild Wellies is groovy Arthur Hastings. Yes, you heard it here first. Arthur the Wellie is mad about his new wellies from The Cumberland Gap Rubber Company!</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Arthur knows that it’s the patented “double-vulcanized” sheen that makes Cumberland Gap Rubber Company wellies the superior variety of all-weather boots. He knows to choose Cumberland Gap Rubber Company boots for their unrivalled impermeability, their unparalleled integrity, their unsurpassed comfort. “When you’re on the go as much as me, you need a boot that can hold up to the demands of life and stay in tip-top condition.” </i>
  <br/>
  <i>Arthur says that puddle-jumping is a craze among the carefree citizens of Wellington Wells. But for proper protection for rainy-weather en-JOY-ment, you’ll need to choose the proper boot. Don’t be left out - buy Cumberland Gap Rubber Company wellies today and be just like the Wellies!</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Now available in four new ultra-bright, all-the-rage, Wellie-Wild colours. Get them in “Wellie” White, “Joy” Juniper, “Downer” Dandelion, and “Skipper” Saffron (Arthur’s favourite!)</i>
  <br/>
  <i>PLUS! Send in the enclosed form with your processing fee to the printed address to receive your very own ENORMOUS 12x24 Arthur “Wellie in Wellies” poster. Hurry! Supplies are limited.</i>
</p><p>Sally didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Instead she flipped the magazine shut with a sigh.<br/><i>silly old me for getting worried. it would appear he’s doing </i>just<i> fine.</i><br/><i>turns out exploiting our experiences for television views isn’t enough. they’ve got to sell </i>being <i>one of us. “‘Downer’ Dandelion.” ha. my god. i never thought i’d come to see Downer used in a magazine, as a good thing. much less as something fashionable.</i><br/><i>…</i><br/><i>…….</i><br/><i>he didn’t look happy, though. did he?</i><br/>Frowning, she picked up the magazine again, thumbing through the pages to try to find the one she’d had open. She was interrupted by the phone ringing.<br/>“Can’t a girl get a moment of quiet?” She muttered, though she couldn’t deny that a smile crept onto her face. She had to admit she was enjoying how in demand she’d been recently.<br/>She rushed to the phone, not wanting to let it ring for long. She cast a look at Gwen - still sleeping, thankfully.<br/>“Hello? This is Sally speaking.”<br/>“Sally Boyle?” There was… she couldn’t quite place it, and that made her feel odd - amazement? - in the unfamiliar voice. “Hi, I… I wanted to schedule an appointment.”<br/>“Great. I’m sure I could fit you in sometime soon. I have some openings on Wednesday and Thursday.”<br/>“I had a Go on Friday,” the voice went on. “Somebody brought some along. I was skeptical, but… It’s better than anything I’ve ever tried. How did you do it?”<br/>Sally smiled. “Well, I’ve been learning chemistry ever since I was a teenager.”<br/>The girl on the other end of the line was about to say something, hesitated, took another breath, then started again with renewed eagerness. “Is it true you learned to make drugs in Wellington Wells?”<br/>Sally went silent. “Who told you that?” She finally asked - carefully, deliberately, trying to hide the outrage in her voice.<br/>“...Is it not true?” The girl asked, shyly. “Am I speaking with the right person?”<br/>“Where did you hear it?”<br/>The girl hesitated. “...It’s, er, just something that’s been going around. I’m sorry to bother, I didn’t mean to…”<br/>Sally closed her eyes, taking a breath and forcing the terseness out of her voice. This wasn’t good. But she didn’t want to take it out on the poor curious caller on the other end of the line who sounded nervous enough as it was.<br/>She decided glossing over the matter entirely would be good enough, in this instance. The poor girl wouldn’t force the matter. But if there was this one lady who had heard this rumour, there would be others.<br/>“You said you wanted to schedule an appointment,” she prompted, pushing the conversation in a more favourable direction. “Does Wednesday at seven P.M. sound alright to you?”<br/>Sally went through the rest of the motions distractedly, getting and giving all the information she needed to set up the meeting and then ending the call with haste.<br/>The very moment she was free, her fingers descended upon the rotary and began dialing his number. The only person who could be responsible.<br/>“Maxwell.”<br/>“Yes? Sally, is that your voice? Listen, I’m right in the middle of fine-tuning my electric gum massager, could you call -”<br/>“Your…? Jesus, Max. You can’t get out of this that easily.”<br/>“Get out of…?” Maxwell’s voice sobered. “Hold on - what’s the matter?”<br/>“You fuck! You know what’s the matter. I said you could promote my business. I never told you you could… spread the word around to everyone and his bloody <i>mother</i>, that I’m a <i>Wellie!</i>”<br/>There was a pause. Maxwell sounded genuinely perplexed. “But why wouldn’t you...? You never told me I shouldn’t…”<br/>“Should I have <i>had to</i>?” She asked, exasperated.<br/>“But, Sally, it’s worked quite… What I mean is, it’s made you very popular. It worked for that - well, um… I just thought it would really add that certain <i>je ne sais quois</i>…”<br/>“So you didn’t trust that my work would speak for itself. You needed a ploy.” <br/>“Yes. No! Look - listen, I’m sorry. Really, Sally, I am. I didn’t know you’d find it so… ”<br/>“<i>How</i> could you not know? You of all people should know.”<br/>“I’m sorry! You’re right, I should have known you’d…”<br/>“But you’re not really sorry. You’re sorry that I’m slagging you off about it now, is all,” she accused. She drew in a long sigh. “Even now, you’re probably thinking to yourself I’m overreacting. You’ll be wondering when I’ll belt up already and apologise for getting myself so worked up.”   <br/>“I don’t think that… I… I understand, I fucked up. I should have waited and asked your permission first. I don’t know why I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking and I was so caught up in the good I thought might come about. And it has been… good, hasn’t it?” He ventured. You’ve been getting more calls, I’m sure of it.” <i>cocky bastard.</i><br/>“I suppose perhaps you <i>don’t </i>really understand what this means for me. You haven’t had to live in hiding.”<br/>“No, I… suppose I haven’t,” he acknowledged, remorse seeping again into his voice.<br/>“It isn’t so much… In the end it isn’t even that you <i>told </i>them, so much as you didn’t think to ask me first. You didn’t even stop to consider that perhaps I would appreciate - I don’t know - some fucking privacy in my life. To not walk down the street and have people look at me like I’m some sort of travelling show, the way they...” Her fingers clutched the phone tight and she groaned in frustration. “I just can’t believe I trusted you not to tell! I should have seen this coming the moment you heard Dr. Kirlew call me a Wellie and you got that <i>look</i> in your eyes.”<br/>“Sally! Please!” He sounded almost frantic. “It’s not true what you’re saying, it wasn’t… it wasn’t some premeditated <i>plan</i>. The only reason I did it was because I… I thought about you, with your child, and… It seemed a brilliant way to help at the time, and yes, I may have had a bit to drink... But - but I wanted to do a good job; I didn’t want to disappoint you when I’d talked up my own - er, cachet - so much. I’m not doing this for myself, I promise. You know that I ask nothing of you - I just wanted to help. I was being careless! I admit that. But I wasn’t trying to - to fuck you over!”<br/>Sally listened to his impassioned excuses, and she couldn’t shake the skepticism that shrouded her. She couldn’t really trust that he wasn’t self-serving at all in his interests, even if she couldn’t see his designs, if that’s what you’d call them, clearly now. He surely saw something in it for himself. <br/>But it <i>was</i> possible that his intentions in this indiscretion hadn’t been bad. She couldn’t deny the panic in his voice. There was something so... <i>naive</i> about him - and it was dangerous to let oneself think that. She’d been tempted to see Arthur that way, before he’d walked out on her. <br/>But come to think of it, maybe Arthur did just that <i>because</i> he was naive. Just not <i>innocent</i>.<br/>So, she didn’t know what to think.<br/>She sighed again, sounding perhaps more weary than bitter. “I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later.”<br/>“...Maybe,” he breathed uncertainly, guiltily, “but I still… Say, this isn’t the kind of conversation to have over the telephone, really, is it? I owe you a proper apology. What time is it?” There was a pause as he presumably looked at a clock. “Ten until five? I can be over by five after.”<br/>“Ten to five?” She started. “Christ, how did it get so late already?” She stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go, now.” Fumbling with the receiver, she added “Appointment.” to explain herself, before she hung up. She grabbed her coat off the hook on the wall, grabbed her sunglasses which weren’t necessary except for maintaining a level of anonymity, and shoved her bag of product and other necessaries for doing business under her arm. In spite of her hurry, she took a brief detour to the bassinet in which Gwen lay, brushing her forehead with a light kiss. “Mummy will be right back. As always,” she added, not without a touch of guilt weighing down her voice.</p><p>“Hello,” she greeted breathlessly as she reached the meeting spot. Despite the circumstances, she couldn’t have imagined missing it. She’d have been letting down multiple buyers at once. <br/>Her three clients were waiting there, hopefully not for very long. She’d begun to double- or triple-book some timeslots and meet multiple customers at the same time, as the demand was high enough to justify it and it was more efficient than keeping greater numbers of meetings and then having to step away from Gwen multiple times. Plus, it felt a bit safer, even if less inconspicuous. “Sorry if I’m a bit late.” <br/>“Sally!” One of them greeted with a small smile.<br/>“No worries,” another chimed in. “Happens to the best of us, doesn’t it?”<br/>“Well, thank you for understanding.” She smiled behind her sunglasses, taking a moment to catch her breath. “Alright, let’s have a look here…” She had a little book that she used to record and account all her transactions and appointments. It was funny - if she didn’t think about it too hard, she could, and did, pretend that she was running a completely ordinary small business. She pulled the book from her bag and considered it. “Aldous, Barry, and Stig?” She identified her clients, glancing up at them.<br/>Maybe not all of the young happening people of London’s most happening places were sold on Go yet, but there was a sizeable following to be sure. Though what would happen now that her secret, as it were, was out, she didn’t know. She frowned slightly at the uncertainty.<br/>“Yes - Sally, actually, we were talking and we had a… question for you.”<br/>She lowered her sunglasses, getting a better read on the man’s face in the shadowy light. He seemed earnest, not threatening, a touch of hope in the eyes.<br/>“We think Go is great, really is, and… and all that, you know. But we were thinking… Well, sometimes we want something…” He struggled to find words, and his mate jumped in.<br/>“We heard you used to live in Wellington Wells. We were curious if you could tell us a little bit about that Joy drug everyone’s talking about?”<br/>“Oh.” She had suspected as much; at least, that this <i>question</i> would have something to do with her newly-revealed Wellsian heritage. “...Well,” she answered carefully. “What exactly was it that you wanted to know?”<br/>“It makes you happy, doesn’t it?”<br/>She smiled wryly. “To a point, yes... I suppose that you could say that, in as much as one of its effects is a state of euphoria.” She ran an uneasy hand through her hair. “If you had wanted to learn more about the effects, I believe that fellow has a lot to say about them in his interviews - Arthur, I think it was?” She suggested politely.<br/>“We’d…” He looked up at her, a little sadly, she thought. “We’d like to be happy.”<br/>“We were wondering if, since you’re a Wellie and all, and you <i>are</i> a master chemist,” the man smiled, “if you knew how to make it. Could you make us some Joy, Sally?”<br/>She took a step back. “I’m afraid that’s one thing I can’t do for you.”<br/>“You mean that you <i>can’t</i> - or you <i>won’t</i>?”<br/>“We thought it’d be… I don’t know, nice. To not have to feel, you know…” He shrugged. “Like every day’s the same.”<br/>Sally felt a twist of sympathy tug at her. That was… Horribly depressing. And even though she felt she’d sooner die than go back on Joy now, theirs was a feeling that she understood well enough. After all, there was a reason the drug’s manufacture had been commissioned all those years ago.<br/>She wanted there to be some way for her to help them... “But Joy’s not the answer,” she replied, gently. “It’s… It’s more poison than drug. It erases your memory. Trust me, you <i>really</i> don’t want to try it.” She tried to find the right words to discourage their idea. “...Every day <i>is</i> the same, on it. More or less.”<br/>“...Sometimes it’s... nice, to forget.”<br/>“We’d pay any price you asked…”<br/>Back on the islands, acknowledging the essential tinge of shadow that was bound up in the light of existence was a radical act. But on the Mainland, pain and pleasure alike were part of the taken-for-granted, inescapable nature of life. For better or worse, it was simply the <i>real world</i>. But why live in the real world when you could sweep away all the drudgery in the seduction of a little sugar-coated pill?<br/>She shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not bringing Joy into the world - well, not any more than it already has been.” She smiled sadly. “It’s ruined enough lives without me adding to it any more.”</p><p>“<i>We want our Joy!” is the alarming refrain coming from the voices of a few apparent escapees who have been found just outside a small seaside town along the Bristol Channel. This handful of bedraggled men and women were discovered yesterday morning by a group of fishermen. They claim to have come from Wellington Wells over the Britannia Bridge connecting the islands to the greater country. When asked to explain this shocking apparent impossibility, one frantic man among them was reported as saying:</i><br/><i>“Haworth Labs is gone. It’s gone. Victoria did it. She did this to us. The Joy’s all gone.”</i><br/><i>More information is being awaited, but it appears that, should this band of travelers be telling the truth, something dramatic indeed has befallen the area of Wellington Wells.</i><br/><i>As for now, the group of people, who were described as wearing ragged, stained clothes mostly torn to shreds, and appearing strikingly thin and malnourished, with hollow, sleepless eyes, have been taken into the hospital for examination and recovery. Once their condition has improved, hopefully it will be possible to speak with them more productively.</i><br/><i>What an interesting development in the face of the recent public awareness of Arthur Hastings, the Wellsian man who recently managed an impressive escape from the oppressive city-state. It would appear that if this story is correct, our favourite Wellie perhaps managed to get out at just the right time.</i></p><p>Arthur had to be sure he was hearing this right. He opened his eyes - as if <i>looking</i> at the source that was currently broadcasting the story into the TV studio dressing room would somehow make the message clearer. Vision blurred, he stared blankly at the little tabletop tube radio. <br/>“Is something wrong, Mr. Hastings?” He became aware of the woman standing in front of him. He’d forgotten the feeling of the soft cloth on his face. The beautician was washing off the day’s camera makeup for him, which came as a great relief. The cream that they put on his face to - he wasn’t quite sure how it worked - make him look “normal” under the lights and on the film stock they used as they recorded his series of interviews, was sticky and unpleasant. He’d been surprised by it on their first day of filming - he thought makeup was only for the ladies, but apparently, they reassured him, every man on a stage or in front of a camera had to wear it to ensure they looked right. Well, complexion-fixing or not, he couldn’t get used to the feeling, and it only added to his sense of discomfort.<br/>“I don’t want to get any in your eyes,” she suggested gently after he didn’t answer, pausing in her work and smiling at him expectantly.<br/>Obediently he shut them again, letting her swipe the cloth against his temples and then move to his forehead.</p><p>No sooner than he had come into view, Maxwell was parking his scooter beside the kerb and dropping his feet down onto the pavement.<br/>Apparently, he had spotted Sally and the band of clients that had made a request she couldn’t accede to. Perhaps he could detect the awkward tension that rested between them and Sally as he assessed the situation and spoke.<br/>“Hello, lads!”<br/>“Maxwell,” one of them greeted. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”<br/>“Oh… You know. Just making my rounds. When I spied my dear friend here and had to say hello.” He gestured towards Sally and grinned disarmingly.<br/>“Right! Sally!” A general wave of approval went round; the men nodded and smiled. “Good old Sally.”<br/>“Indeed. Are you lads working your regular shifts at the nightclub tonight? The one off Knightsbridge, I mean. Not the other one.”<br/>“Yes, yes, we are.”<br/>“I suppose we had better get going, shall we?” One said to the others. “If we wanted to make it down to the coffee bar for an espresso before we’ve got to start setting up.”<br/>“Yes, suppose we should. Sally - it was a pleasure doing business. Thank you.”<br/>Maxwell turned to her once they’d made to leave. “Sally, I should tell you again how sorry -”<br/>She pursed her lips. She didn’t want to hear it. It would be more of the same groveling and attempted justifications, and he’d just sound like Anton Verloc again after he’d “slipped up” and made one of his particularly hurtful “mistakes.” “Really? What’s this about being sorry? I hadn’t heard that one.” She waved him off, and folded her arms, and changed the topic.<br/>“You never explained to me exactly, Maxwell, what an electric gum massager was.”</p><p>“Say, you didn’t happen to… hear what they were saying on the radio just now, did you?” Arthur asked, hesitantly. Even when it had felt like so long since he’d last had Joy, every now and then something would happen that would make him wonder, if only for a moment, if he were hallucinating again. The old fear that came from those moments when he couldn’t trust his senses still lingered from time to time. In fact, with the growing surreality of his life, he might concede that it had even gotten a bit worse.<br/>“Hm?” The lady made him tilt his head forward, working carefully around his hairline to remove the residual foundation there. “No, I wasn’t listening. That bloody thing’s on all day. I tune it out at this point.” She paused, presumably to examine her work. “Why?”<br/>“...No reason,” he reassured her, but even as he said it he felt his stomach turn.<br/>She tried to guide him to move his neck to one side, and he flinched involuntarily. “You’re too tense, Mr. Hastings,” she complained. “Never before have I worked with a man - or anyone - who was so… as if you were ready to get up and run away at any second. Please, do relax yourself.”<br/>“Sorry.” But his mind was elsewhere.<br/><i>Haworth Labs destroyed. </i><br/><i>Could that really be true? But it has to be true, if these people really came from Wellington Wells. Or at least it would make sense if it were true, because without such a big… er, disruption, there’s no way they’d just</i> let<i> people leave. </i><br/><i>Unless this is some sort of public stunt pulled by… Wanna-be Wellies, as it were. But I don’t think so.</i><br/>Arthur struggled to picture it. The imposing Brutalist structure that loomed over and in fact completely dominated the Holm of Uskglass, the vast purple glow that surged forth day and night and made the single island visible in the skyline from practically any vantage point in all of Wellington Wells - gone. Gone?<br/>What <i>had</i> happened to it, exactly? What had they said? ...<i>Victoria</i> did it? <i>Miss Byng</i>? <i>Miss Byng was the most orthodox, the least subversive Wellie I could possibly think of. That can’t be true - or… at least there must be more of a story to it. I wonder what </i>really<i> happened</i>. He felt restless and overwhelmed thinking about it. Here it was - news on what had to be an undoubtedly terrifying and yet… he dared say, <i>exciting</i> development in the history of his Wellington Wells - and he could only rely on the sluggish news reporting of the Mainland to find out what was going on. There were so many questions raised and none of them answered. Wellington Wells was being turned inside out and he was - for better or for worse - missing it.<br/>Except… Was it really so exciting? It was far too early to <i>celebrate</i>, that was for sure. God, he couldn’t imagine what was going on there. It had to be nothing short of chaos.<br/>And Sally might be back there, right in the middle of it.</p><p>“<i>Uncle Jack told us to stop taking our Joy. I saw it. I saw it on the telly. Uncle Jack became a rotten Downer. If we don’t have him on our side anymore… what have we got left?</i>”<br/>The man on the telly, speaking with listless distress behind the reporter’s microphone, looked unnervingly dead-eyed. <i>what has he seen? </i>Sally wondered.<br/>“My God,” Maxwell breathed, sat beside her on the couch. “What’s happened there? He looks <i>awful</i>.”<br/>“<i>On the other hand, most of the runaway Wellies discovered yesterday have been strikingly silent…</i>”<br/>“I knew it was falling apart,” Sally breathed. “I just didn’t think it’d all fall apart so <i>soon</i>…”<br/>Maxwell turned away from the television to face her. “I am... so sorry, Sally. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. I feel terrible watching these people, and… and I don’t even have the same connection that you do. But these are your people…”<br/>“<i>Efforts are being planned to investigate the events leading to this apparent displacement of Wellsian people. Plans for their successful reinstatement in their home territory after their recovery in hospital are already being devised.” </i><br/><i>how are they going to make them </i>return?<br/>“Is that so, Mr. Half-Wellie?” She asked, but there was no mirth in it. She didn’t take her eyes from the television.<br/>“...<i>Our</i> people.”<br/>And even though she knew she shouldn’t, she let him reach over with his good arm and take one of her hands into his.</p><p>The beautician turned in alarm at the sound of the door swinging open, and Arthur opened his eyes.<br/>“Miss, this is the men’s - Oh! Miss Stone.” She bowed her head slightly. “Do pardon me.”<br/>“No problem at all.” Morgan waved her concern away and rushed over to Arthur. “Did you hear the ghastly news? About your home?”<br/>He nodded grimly. “...I should be there. Not here.”<br/>Morgan paused, obviously not expecting that reaction, and stared at him. “Are you <i>mad</i>? Going back there now would be a death sentence. I mean - wouldn’t it?”<br/>“Maybe.” He smiled weakly. “Heh...”<br/>She shook her head. “No, don’t be silly. We can do much more good right here and right now.”<br/>“How do you mean?”<br/>She got that impassioned twinkle in her eye again. “Arthur, you’re going to have the chance to win the hearts and minds of those who can help the Wellies. Everyone’s going to be looking towards you.” She straightened, placing a hand on her hip. I’ve got an idea.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Fête of Our Times</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur had thought that his ship had come in when he’d landed that civil servant job back in Wellington Wells. There was hardly anywhere higher he could go from there, the way he’d seen it. At least, as far as his hometown was concerned. If you’d told him that he’d end up as an <i>honoured guest </i>in a grand mansion on the southern edge of London, in the company of, among others, Lords and Ladies, he’d have found that more than a little odd.<br/>Such was Morgan’s big idea. Well - in actuality - the two of them had already planned on attending before she’d seen an opportunity in it. This particular gathering was a charity fête, which Arthur understood was held around this same time annually, very close to Christmas, when potential donors might be particularly moved to give. It was a fundraiser for something called the Society for Families in Grief, and Arthur had been invited to join them for the event, as his presence there was anticipated to encourage attendance and draw publicity. After all, everyone wanted their chance to meet and speak to the <i>Wellie from the telly</i>. Arthur, in his few weeks of fame, had already met so many people, from all sorts of backgrounds, that he’d entirely lost track. He’d had countless small, polite conversations with people who reacted to him anywhere on a scale from starstruck awe to casual affability. It was all getting a bit overwhelming, and he already dreaded that someone should expect him to remember their name from such an interaction.<br/>But in any case, this cause had seemed worthy enough - a chance to do something helpful for charity at the expense of perhaps being gawked at a bit - and at Morgan’s encouragement he had agreed. He’d agreed without knowing much about it, and had almost forgotten it amongst his long list of obligations and scheduled public appearances by the time Morgan had gotten the notion that this event would be the perfect venue for securing much-needed support for the Wellies who were being displaced by what the media was beginning to call the Joy Crisis. And the need was evident - even when nobody seemed to know much about what was happening and the news felt agonizingly slow, Arthur regretted to admit that some people were showing… ambivalence about the possibility of accepting Wellies back into greater British society. “<i>I would raise the question of whether the isles of Wellington Wells can truly still be considered under the legal jurisdiction and responsibility of the United Kingdom. We all know well enough, after all, the events following the war. I am not ungenerous to their plight; I would be the first to support sending aid there, but I suggest it would be much preferable if the separate national identities were preserved,” </i>one commentator had editorialized, frustratingly.<br/>But Arthur was a familiar figure - if there was anyone who could comfort people and advocate for the particular needs of the Wellies which might arise in this situation, it would have to be him. And this event, Morgan had advised him, would be especially critical in that aim. Several members of Parliament were expected to be in attendance, as well various figures of cultural and economic distinguishment. If he chose his words and actions right, he might be able to tip the scales among them in favor of Wellie-acceptance. <br/>And that felt like quite a bit on his shoulders. Often when he was out in the public eye he’d felt the weight of representing an entire people, but it was a more indistinct feeling, then. Not to mention, his audiences mostly hadn’t been people with such a direct power to effect changes for the better. So now, in the thick of things, he couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. He’d donned his very best suit, a black tie getup out of what he and Morgan had picked out for situations just like this. It was the most conservative choice, in consideration of the occasion - he took care to ensure that he’d be presenting the best image that he could, as he looked in the mirror and tried to convince himself the night wouldn’t go horribly. “<i>Alright, Arthur,” </i>he’d said to himself. “<i>It’s just a few hours. You can manage a few hours, can’t you? It’s only the fate of everyone you used to call your neighbour - who’s... still alive, anyways… - resting in the balance. Simple.</i>” He was thankful, at least, that he had Morgan at his side - as usual. She always knew what to say, if words failed him.<br/>So this was the fête. It was quite a departure from the sorts of village fêtes Arthur remembered distantly from his past in Wellington Wells, or even the more recent festivals (which had existed since he was little but were specifically codified after the war to build public morale) like the May Day picnic or the Midsummer celebration, in the islands’ long list of public holidays which borrowed directly from the tradition of the fête. Those sorts of childhood village fêtes had games and raffles, music and dance, bright colours and cheerful decoration as much as they could afford in those times, and vendors selling cake and tea, all out in the open air on a nice seasonable day. It was open to all, and most everyone came - mums and dads with all their children in tow, younger brothers cajoling their older siblings into spending their little pocket money on the coconut shies, young couples stealing a kiss under some secluded awning.<br/>But it was getting much too cold for such an outdoor event now. In the past, Morgan was explaining to him, this charity gala was held as an elaborate garden party, in the late spring. The date was moved and the event no longer was part of London’s customary social season, but the name had remained the same. The Annual Fête for Children and Families in Grief simply moved itself under cover of the high chandelier-hung ceilings of a large estate that Arthur could only imagine must belong to somebody very important indeed.<br/>He couldn’t help but feel like a fish out of water as he and Morgan crossed the threshold and were suddenly greeted by a rush of deliberately understated activity, hushed voices spreading the announcement of his presence throughout the large open room, the flash of cameras from the few members of the press who were there to document, and perhaps the discreet attempts of a few amateur photographers thrown in among them as well. Though the quiet rumble of conversation continued to fill the room, Arthur couldn’t help but take note of the strange phenomenon that was his presence there altering the very feeling in the air.<br/>Arthur surveyed the crowd as they walked along, Morgan leading the way as they made their rounds. It was the cocktail hour, and servers were running about among them, filling expectant glasses. It was impossible for the pair to avoid having to stop to talk every few paces they took across the room, and something of a half-organized queue had gathered itself around them, hopeful people awaiting their chance to introduce themselves and seek answers to their burning questions.<br/>“Mr. Hastings,” a young man of some distinction ventured, “I was wondering if you would spare the time to explain something of the custom of so-called ‘happy masks’ among your people. I’ve heard that a few of the Wellies recently discovered on the shore were wearing white masks which give the affectation of an exaggerated smile.”<br/>“Oh, right. The masks. Well, they only came into fashion recently, I think… The idea is, if your face is shaped into a smile all the time, you’ll be happy all the time. Just sort of an… added security.” He flashed a polite smile.<br/>“Haven’t you got yours any longer?”<br/>“No. Um... Threw it away, I did.”<br/>“Ah. What a shame.” He shook his head. “Do you know where I might be able to get one? Not for me, of course. Personally I think they look positively ghastly.” He laughed, a little derisively, Arthur thought. The man seemed to be going off on a personal tangent now, musing to himself. “But you know how the <i>public</i> has gotten over all this Wellie madness. They would love it. If I could get my hands on one to copy, well then, I could manufacture them, sell them for a few bob a piece…” He mused. “I could buy myself that stable out in Henley I’ve had my eyes on.”<br/>“Perhaps someone else will have one,” the man’s friend chimed in. “He’s not the only Wellie around, you know. You’ve heard of the one that’s started selling drugs, haven’t you?”<br/>“Pardon me?” Arthur interjected, blinking.<br/>“Oh, you haven’t?” He sounded disappointed. “I was hoping <i>you</i> would know more, Mr. Hastings. There are rumours going around that there’s some Wellie selling uppers on the street. That’s all I know about it, though.”<br/>“Selling drugs?” His friend asked. “Do you mean that one everyone’s talking about? What is it called, again?” He raised an eyebrow. “Bliss?”<br/>“Joy,” Arthur supplied quietly, taking a step closer. <i>Another Wellie, here? I wonder who. How odd.</i><br/>“I don’t know.” He shrugged.<br/>His friend guffawed. “Well, I’d have to assume so. What’s the point, if no <i>Joy</i>?”<br/>The other shook his head. “Do you suppose people would really buy it?”<br/>“Oh, without question.” The two men had turned away from Arthur, apparently not caring to involve him in the conversation any longer - although he could still hear them talking. “Everybody’s trying to be a Wellie these days. To a point where the mind struggles to make sense of it all. You’ve heard of the… the fan groups that chap has got? Talk about him like some sort of god. They should be called cults, is what they really ought to be called. Absolutely mental, is what it is.” <br/>The other yawned. “The people we idolize these days. I don’t know what our society’s come to.”</p><p>Once the fray had thinned at least slightly, and the people milling about were beginning to gradually shift closer and closer to the room in which the main banquet was to be held shortly, the host and hostess were finally able to reach Arthur and Morgan where they stood. Morgan had told him to anticipate them: The Baron and Baroness Deacon, a peeraged pair which prided themselves on their philanthropy. They appeared to be perhaps in their fifties or sixties, and they were of course outfitted elegantly, the Baroness in a floor-length honey-coloured gown.<br/>It was she that spoke first. “Miss Stone, Mr. Hastings - welcome. We thank you most sincerely for agreeing to attend tonight’s charity fête, our largest gathering of the year in support of The Society for Families in Grief. We expect, with any luck, to break all of our annual giving records this year, and we’re honoured to welcome you as guests.”<br/>“Thank you ever so much, My Lady. We’re more than honoured to be here tonight.” Morgan grinned pleasantly and gave her hand. <br/>Arthur put on a smile as well, though he felt more than a little intimidated. <i>What exactly does one say to a Baroness?</i> Sure, he’d discussed that at some length with Morgan, but now that the noble couple was standing before them, and he remembered his purpose in being here, he felt a little bit dizzy. He watched as Morgan greeted Lady Deacon and then Lord Deacon with such ease, such poise, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. How did she do it? He tried to imitate her demeanour and follow her lead as best he could.<br/>“Good evening. Pleased to meet Your Ladyship,” he greeted diplomatically. “<i>Be natural, Arthur. Earnest. Above all, that’s what they’re expecting from you</i>,” Morgan’s advice echoed in his head. Though come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure what that <i>meant</i>.<br/>After the exchange of greetings and a few pleasantries, the couple was ready to lead the honoured guests to their seats. The Baron guided Morgan to her seat beside him and the Baroness brought Arthur to his beside her, such that Morgan and Arthur were sitting directly across from each other at one end of the large table. Arthur examined the frankly baffling array of silverware on his place setting as he kept up with the conversation among Morgan and the Deacons. More and more of the attendees began to filter in, finding their place cards at the table and the several tables adjoining and taking their assigned seats. Servers had begun to fill the first of the half-circle of glasses beside each person’s plate. When it appeared that all had gathered, The Baron Deacon rose from his chair.<br/>“My esteemed guests,” he began in a voice which filled the cavernous dining room. “I would like to thank each and every one of you personally for your attendance of The Annual Fête for Children and Families in Grief this year. As many of you already know, this year has been especially fortuitous for the organization, and we thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the support that has been given to this cause which is so very near to us. It is this time of year in which grief is felt most keenly, and thus this time in which such support is received with especial warmth and gratitude.” The Baron glanced at Arthur, then continued. “I am sure that some of you have already had the pleasure of speaking to our honoured guest, Mr. Arthur Hastings. We were delighted when he and his illustrious manager, Miss Morgan Stone, agreed to participate, and we are so very grateful to have him in our presence today. I would like to pass the honour of giving the first toast to Mr. Hastings.”<br/>The Baron sat, and Arthur felt his heart stutter. He looked to Morgan, who gave him a reassuring, confident smile. Still, he couldn’t help but feel scrutinized. He knew she’d be wincing internally - or externally - if he buggered things up now. And if he worried about what Morgan would think, well, that only paled in comparison to how the rest of the guests, who would be presumably less sympathetic - he looked around and wondered if there had been <i>that many</i> here when they’d first arrived - might react.<br/><i>Is it too late to pretend I’ve become suddenly and horribly ill</i>?<br/>But he discarded that thought, and still he stood.<br/>“Hello,” he said. He heard his voice drift and echo in the room.<br/><i>Hello? Is that really what we’re going to start with? Bloody “hello.” </i>He couldn’t bring himself to look down to even check Morgan’s reaction on this one. Instead he cleared his throat and tried to gather his motivations about himself.<br/><i>Remember, Arthur. Weight of the future of Wellington Wells on your shoulders. Room full of people who might be able to fucking </i>do<i> something about that future.</i><br/>“Ladies and gentlemen - Lord Deacon and Lady Deacon - thank you for your kind welcome today. Indeed already I’ve had the pleasure of speaking with many of you, and I find myself impressed by your spirit of generosity and warmth.” <i>Well, I would be, if I’d had the chance to see it over everyone rushing to hear about my life’s story... But, flattery gets you everywhere, after all</i>. “Um... Yes. I’d like to humbly draw your attention tonight to another very worthy, and very urgent issue. I find it important to note that we are gathered today to support grieving families - that’s a cause which of course I think is very important. As I’m sure most of you already know, I used to call Wellington Wells my home.” A few camera bulbs flashed. “The people of Wellington Wells… Are not unfamiliar with grief. In fact, we’ve had to make ourbed with it... until it consumed us so entirely that, of course, our society resorted to trying to obliterate all that pain. But not a single one of us has been untouched by grief. I’m sure many of you have heard of the present situation there, with many Wellies fleeing what they’ve called home for decades. And, er, I recognize that some of you may have... concerns about this situation, but I would like to urge you to do what you can to support the Wellies at this extremely difficult time. We’re no different than anyone; we feel pain like everybody else... think of the tremendous agony these people are facing, coming to terms with the grief they’ve suppressed, and losing everything they used to know, in their old lives. By supporting the rehabilitation of the Wellsian people, you’d have a chance to ease their suffering in this critical time. So, though I know there are many worthy causes to support, I humbly ask that you consider what you might do to improve their situation. And as such, I would like to toast tonight to comfort in times of need for the families, children, and all individuals who are suffering - everywhere throughout the UK. Thank you.”<br/>He was met with a smattering of polite applause. In his fantasies, he might have imagined a standing ovation - but he’d absolutely take this reaction in lieu of that. He felt a tremendous sense of relief that was almost euphoric, the comedown of adrenaline that washed over you after you’d just done something difficult that left you feeling strikingly calm in its wake. He sat down again, sighing privately to himself.<br/>When he looked to Morgan again, she gave him an encouraging nod.<br/><i>I guess I’ve done alright, then</i>. He returned her smile.<br/>The Baron Deacon cleared his throat. “...Thank you, Mr. Hastings. Very nice.”<br/>“Of course,” he returned lightly. “I’m honoured by the privilege. Thank you.”<br/>“Mr. Hastings, Miss Stone - have you met Bishop Hawtrey-Goodford and Headmaster Alexander Ogilvy yet?” The Baroness Deacon indicated towards the two figures who were seated beside Arthur and Morgan - the first, an elderly, stately looking fellow, and the second, a somewhat younger lad with a dour face.<br/>“Oh no, I don’t believe we’ve properly met,” Morgan answered.<br/>“Well, I shall have to rectify that!” The Baroness took it upon herself to introduce the two groups. “We are so pleased to facilitate this meeting,” she enthused. “These two gentlemen are some of our closest friends, and some of our biggest supporters at this event, year after year. The Bishop Hawtrey-Goodford is a most esteemed member of the Lords Spiritual, and Mr. Ogilvy is the current Headmaster of Eton.”<br/>“Very pleased to meet you,” Mr. Ogilvy greeted. “I’ve heard much about this <i>fascinating</i> exemplar of the Wellsian kind.” He nodded towards Arthur, but he was really speaking to Morgan. “Tell me - I’m terribly curious - what sorts of institutions for learning have they in Wellington Wells? Or have they none? Does the man know how to read and write?”<br/><i>Do I - chrissake, do I know how to </i>read<i> and </i>write<i>? Why wouldn’t I... Just how long ago does he think we sent the bloody children? For that matter, how young does he think I am?</i><br/>Arthur watched as Morgan’s polite façade faltered, if just barely. She exchanged the slightest look with Arthur. “Oh,” she started, maintaining a charitable composure, “well, why don’t you ask the man himself?” She smiled. “Arthur…?”<br/>“Ah, well, I - yes,” Arthur began to answer on his own behalf, flustered. “I’m perfectly literate. I can assure you, all of Wellington Wells is. Because, um, well you see, we went to school. Actually, I myself was studying to become an engineer…”<br/>“An engineer. Ah. Very interesting. I didn’t know that they had engineers there.”   <br/><i>This is the man in charge of the education of England’s best and brightest future elites, that I’m speaking to?</i><br/>Despite Morgan’s redirection, Mr. Ogilvy was still looking directly at her as he spoke, as if the two of them were in on some private conversation that Arthur was part of, but not exactly privy to - set firmly on the outside, somehow. At least that’s how the Headmaster seemed to view it. As if Morgan was not just an intermediary, but that Arthur didn’t really speak for himself. He’d experienced traces of this before, where people treated him as if he, as a Wellie, had become so foreign that they were speaking to someone of an entirely different culture. It was… to put it lightly, quite bizarre.<br/>“Well, I suppose it’s like the French say, heh. The more things change, the more they… stay the same.” Arthur forced a smile.<br/>Even Morgan had begun to look quite uncomfortable at this point. “Really, Mr. Ogilvy, I’m sure you’ll find that Arthur is just like the rest of us, in what really matters,” she reassured as pleasantly as possible.<br/>“Yes, yes,” Mr. Ogilvy responded vaguely. <br/>“You must have had a terribly difficult time adjusting to life here,” the Bishop Hawtrey-Goodford offered. At least he was actually looking at Arthur, directing the question towards him.<br/>“Oh, yes, well… There were some difficulties, yes. Some things to get used to. Some things, I’ve found, have sort of, er, diverged since we’ve been cut off.” Arthur brightened. He saw an opportunity. “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me when I tried to use my Wellsian currency, for example. You see, back there, we still use the sovereign… We have our own mint and everything. And I didn’t realize it was different. So it worked alright until someone noticed the Wellsian crest on them. But once that happened, well… It was awful.” Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure exactly how much he ought to reveal, about that experience. What a shock it must have been for that poor innkeeper, seeing the man that had run off without proper payment on the telly only about a week or so later.<br/>“Oh?”<br/>“Yes. You see - this is one thing that can be done to ensure the smooth transition of Wellies into our society. Some means of exchange ought to be established, so that those coming over, who’ve already lost so much, haven’t got to start entirely from nothing.” Arthur wasn’t sure, in truth, how many Wellies would be bringing any significant sum with them, or if they even had access to their savings, or any of their possessions, before they fled. Perhaps most of them would have had to loot what they could to survive, as he had. But in any case, it would be a powerful gesture of support and acceptance. “Besides, it would lessen the potential burden that poverty can place on our society.”<br/>“Mm. Yes. <i>Very </i>nice,” the Bishop concurred.<br/>That was the best answer Arthur could get from those around him, here. Every time he tried to bring some new matter up - even with Morgan’s help, propelling the conversation forward and supporting his words - he was met with a chorus of “Yes, yes,” and “<i>Very</i> nice, Mr. Hastings,” the clearing of throats, and the tinkling of forks and knives against porcelain. This went on throughout the meal courses into the after-dinner demitasse, and he’d just about given up.<br/>“I say, Mr. Hastings, there is something that has been on my mind. If you’ll indulge my curiosity,” Bishop Hawtrey-Goodford probed.<br/>“Oh - yes. Of course,” Arthur invited, discreetly wiping his hands on the serviette on his lap.<br/>“Yes. Well.” The Bishop cleared his throat. “I would assume that the state of the Church in your… homeland has been something of disrepair. Without a proper guiding moral authority, it does trouble me that these people have been without the light of truth for far too long. I do wonder how your kind would have avoided descending into a state of total depravity. Is there still a Wellsian culture? That is... do you believe the Wellies still possess a moral conscience?” <br/>Something finally seemed to crack in Morgan’s expression, a smile twitching just a bit too far into a grimace. She stood abruptly and pushed her chair in.<br/>“Please do excuse us for leaving so early,” she apologized to the host and hostess, who were looking on in shock. “But I believe we have to be going now.” She frowned. “Until your guests are able to treat my client with the barest amount of respect and decency, I think that there are other matters that we had ought to attend to.”<br/>“Miss Stone -” The Baroness began, eyes wide as saucers. “Please accept my deepest apologies. But good heavens, let us discuss this matter in private -”<br/>“Thank you for your hospitality. It’s been a lovely evening, and we’re very grateful for the invitation. But perhaps we ought to try again some other time, yes?”        <br/>“Please, stay for the silent auction, won’t you? I think that you’ve made your point well enough - now let us please desist with this…”<br/>“Arthur?” Morgan prompted, gesturing for him to come with her.<br/>He looked around. They were causing a <i>bit</i> of a scene. <br/>Well, of course they were. They were the guests of honour and they were pissing off before the meal was even officially over. It was hard for conversation to not lull and heads to not turn at something like that. He winced.<br/>He hoped she knew what she was doing.<br/>Shyly, he stood and maneuvered around the edge of the table to join her, and he couldn’t help but feel everyone’s eyes on their backs as they saw themselves out.</p><p>The further away they got, the more Morgan’s expression lightened from lividity to… Well, if Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d say it was elation. Once the main door of the grand mansion shut firmly behind them, she began to cackle.<br/>“Wasn’t that incredible?” She breathed, wheeling around to face him. “I feel - I feel as though I’m a schoolgirl again. Like I’ve just told the headmistress back at Charterhouse to fuck off. I was too good to, then. Of course. But I always wanted to.”<br/>Arthur furrowed his brow. “So you don’t feel we’ve just done something… Horribly rude?” He broached, hesitantly. Of course, he’d been just as aggravated by his treatment at the hands of the snooty prigs back in there. Only he’d have been inclined to have toughened the rest of it out, to just grit his teeth and look forward to getting out of there. In fact, he’d have been afraid, had he spoken up about it, that Morgan would have been mortified. He admired her standing up for him, but he had to admit he was confused. And still rather worried.<br/>She laughed again. “Oh, Arthur. No question about that! But compared with how they were acting towards you?”<br/>He made a face. “Well, yeah, but - you don’t think there’s going to be a whole… <i>thing</i>, about this? About how we fucked right off in the middle of a charity fête?”<br/>“There will. But it’ll be a good thing. To… To tell the truth, Arthur, I’m not sure they were really taking so well to how we sort of… seized the topic of their fundraiser and made it about the Wellies. Even if it’s a worthy cause. Well, of course you noticed. They didn’t want to be confronted with it. Had we let the night go on as it was, I realized our being there hardly would have made a ripple in the waters. The press here tonight might have devoted a sentence or two to it. But now, by tomorrow you and your speech, and the horrible way you were treated, will be on the cover of every newspaper. It’ll strengthen your support among your base, which is perhaps suspicious of the pretensions of people like… well, you know. It’ll draw attention to our cause and shame these people for the attitude they took. We’ve made a <i>statement</i> tonight.”<br/>Arthur twisted his face as he considered it. That would be nice enough, if it did work out that way - but he could just as easily see it going another way. It wasn’t as if the press were right there, listening in on the disrespectful remarks of the others that preceded their leaving. He and Morgan were in the minority, and those who were there would tell their own story - their own version of events. That version of events almost undoubtedly would portray him and Morgan as the arseholes for causing a fuss and throwing away the grace of their hosts.  <br/>Morgan seemed to sense exactly what he was thinking. “You still don’t trust me, do you? Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that the right story gets out. Remember, that’s my specialty. I’m a personal assistant, skilled Wellie-interpreter, and PR manager, all in one.” She laughed. “You’re lucky to have me.”<br/>“I am,” he admitted, guiltily. “Thank you, Morgan. Really.”<br/>“Of course. We’re in this together, aren’t we?”<br/>“So we are.” He looked around. The sky was black as night, and there was a moon out. It was freezing cold, and a wind blew down the winding path that led out from the estate.<br/>“Well,” he said, “we’ve made our statement. What now?”<br/>“I don’t suppose Graeme will be here for a while, still. Since we’re out a bit <i>earlier</i> than expected.” She giggled.<br/>Arthur nodded. Ever since his assistance after they’d been chased around the block of the boutique shop, Graeme (being one of the few in Morgan’s circle here in the city that actually owned a car of his own) had become their <i>de facto</i> chauffeur. Morgan had brought up several times already the possibility of getting a more glamorous hired transport service, but Arthur didn’t see the need. Graeme had a nice enough car, and he seemed to enjoy the feeling of importance that came with the job - and the excuse to be closer to Morgan, Arthur thought.<br/>“Care to go for a walk?” She held out her arm for Arthur to take it, using him for balance as she carefully started her way down the steep stone steps in her tall heels.<br/>“Sure, alright,” he obliged her. “Bit of a cold night for a walk, though.”<br/>“I see. You’d prefer to go back in there and get demoralized by them all again,” she teased.<br/>“Well, no.” He frowned. “God, they… They really didn’t care about it at all, did they? About what I had to say. They couldn’t be arsed about any of these people coming out of Wellington Wells.”<br/>“Aw, well… I think some of them might have been moved,” she reassured. “They just didn’t show it.”<br/>“I don’t know why I ought to bother with it,” he complained, feeling a bit deflated. “It was stupid of me to think I could really make a difference. They all just see me as… as the <i>entertainment.</i>”<br/>“Goodness, Arthur, you’re not thinking of giving up on it, are you? Give it a bit, you’ll see. People will listen. You’ve just got to keep trying. One discouraging moment doesn’t mean the end of it all.”<br/>He sighed. “Maybe…”    <br/>“I’m sorry,” she added, voice serious. “I hope you don’t think I brought you here knowing it was going to be like this. I honestly thought… I really did think they would be more receptive. Some of these people, my family’s had ties to them going back… Ah, but it doesn’t matter. I should’ve known. You deserved better than that.”<br/>“It’s alright.” They reached the bottom of the steps and started down the path. On either side of them was a wide expanse of green - except, of course, it didn’t appear green in the darkness. And soon enough, given the weather, the green would fade to a dingy yellow-brown. The grounds around the estate were vast, but not far beyond the trees which secluded these peaceful grounds, Arthur knew, the city was alive with the night.<br/>“It’s rather dark, isn’t it?” Morgan whistled to herself. “A lady ought never go out walking in the dark. It’s not proper.” She laughed. Arthur quirked an eyebrow as he glanced around them. It didn’t exactly look like a prime place to be troubled by anyone. But what did he know? <br/>“But you’ll keep me safe, won’t you, Arthur? I’m sure you’ve had more than your share of beating back assailants, back where you came from. Nobody talks about that side of you. But I know from what you’ve told me - you must have. Did you have to do it with your bare hands?” She grimaced at the thought. “Oh, dear.”<br/>Arthur stiffened. It was something he’d rather not speak on. <br/>“Sorry. Sorry! I shan’t pry. All I meant by it is, Arthur, I feel safe around you. I know you’re not the sort - but what I mean to say is… I think it’s really amazing that you were able to survive in there! You don’t seem like the type - of course I don’t mean that in a <i>bad</i> way, it’s good that you don’t seem to be...” It was almost funny to see her so uncharacteristically tongue-tied. It was usually him that got that way. <i>How much of that Cognac did you have, Morgan</i>? He shook his head.<br/>“What I mean - is! You’re sort of like a... big brother to me, Arthur.” She patted him on the arm she had still been holding onto and then let her hand drop to her side.<br/>Arthur didn’t know why, but he smiled - the first genuine smile, probably, that he’d had all day. He hoped she could see it, in the darkness.<br/>“That is, you know, you’re something a little bit different. Everybody wants something from me. Hell, I know you do, too. You’re in this for the money, or whatever it was. But you feel more like you could be my brother than my <i>brother </i>himself.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Does that make any sense?”<br/>“No, it does.” He laughed softly. “I think I understand.”<br/>“You do?”<br/>“Yeah, well. I’ve never had a little sister. Or any sister. But I, er. Well. I know the feeling. Of being a sibling.” <i>Yeah, Arthur. That’s how words work</i>. <i>Brill-o job, that.</i>  <br/>“Your brother,” she prompted, as if she just remembered him. “Tell me more about your brother.”<br/>“What about him?” Arthur slowed his pace, half-consciously.<br/>“Well, what was he… You know, what was he <i>like</i>? What happened, with the two of you? Clearly you care about him an awful lot, that you still… You know. That you think about him so much, after all these years.”<br/>“I do.”<br/>“Tell me about him.”<br/>“Well…” Arthur started simply, a little bit hesitant, not sure where he was going with this, or how much to tell. The words sort of came out. “When he was born, he had the bluest eyes.”<br/><i>Arthur, really. Why would she care about something so small like that</i>?<br/>But Morgan seemed interested. “Did he, really? You were the elder, then?”<br/>“No. No I wasn’t. The eyes - well, at least, that’s what Mum said. I was far too busy being not-born to know that. Even if Joy hadn’t trashed my memory.” He laughed. “But she said, soon enough, they darkened, along with his hair, so they were a deep brown. Like mine. Or…” He frowned, frustrated with his failing memory. “Or were they?” He sighed. <i>How could I be uncertain about something like that</i>? He longed to see his brother again. To just <i>know</i>, plain and simply. “Never <i>was</i> one to look you in the eye, Percy. Liked to sit there on his hands and stare off into space so you wondered if he was actually listening. He really was, though... But, yeah, Mum said… She used to say he changed his eyes so he could follow his younger brother, you know, be like me. I was born the year right after him, and I think she said that’s when they started to change.” <br/>He coughed, adjusting his cufflinks under the cold moonlight. “He did use to follow me around a lot. Think I got tired of it sometimes. Heh. But he was brilliant. He taught me as much as he learned from me - or, what I tried to teach him, which, was, well, it wasn’t as important, was it? Basic… manners, and things. Don’t go outside without your clothes on. You know. But he could remember everything. Maybe he didn’t do what I said, and it’d drive me up a wall ‘cause I’d tell him something about a thousand times - but sure enough, he’d remember me saying it. Just didn’t see why he should care. But he remembered everything he saw and heard, clear as day.”    <br/>“I’m sure your mother had her hands full.”<br/>“She did, but she loved him more than anything. When he... went, I don’t think she ever was able to…” His mouth twisted again, a pained look. “Morgan, I should tell you… Maybe I should tell you what really happened. I did something…”                        <br/>“I think I know.”<br/>She surprised him. “You… You do?”<br/>She nodded.<br/>“I…” He didn’t know what to say.<br/>“You know - probably he’s surpassed us all, by now. The genius sort. He sounds like he was a really sweet kid, Arthur,” she comforted, or tried to. “I can picture him. A bit odd, maybe, but lovable. And clearly loved.”<br/>“He was. He is.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Best of British Luck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Good evening, citizens of Wellington Wells! The Department of Archives, Printing, and Recycling has found this chapter to be potentially Subversive and has advised its prompt redacting to remove all those trivial little things in the past which nobody can remember anyways. You might want to pop an extra Joy or two before reading. And if at any time you feel yourself at risk of becoming a rotten Downer, go ahead and have another. You can never be too careful!</p><p>That is to say, it's kinda angsty, but I hope you stick with me on this story as there's still much more to come :')</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur opened the door, expecting to find Morgan standing there in front of him. She was the only visitor he ever had, after all. Well, she was the only person who knew where he lived. At least, so far. Knock on wood, there.<br/>But as he opened the door, expecting to have to peer down but finding himself at eye level with a man instead, he remembered with a jolt that there <i>was</i> one other person that he had given his address to. He’d been hoping he’d hear from him over all the past week, but the expectation of seeing Morgan had become so automatic that he hadn’t thought he’d see him there instead.<br/>“Claude! Hello! Er, come right in.” Arthur stepped back and made way for Morgan’s brother. <br/>He entered, taking off his hat respectfully as he crossed the threshold. “Thank you. I can’t stay long. I just came to bring what I found regarding your brother.” He gestured to the folder he held under his arm.<br/>Arthur felt his heart race. This was the moment he’d been waiting for ever since Claude had agreed to look for leads, but now that the information he sought was so near, he couldn’t fight back his anxiety. He found himself suddenly over-examining every detail of the moment as though they were clues on what to expect. He would have expected Claude to call him first - in fact, he thought he might be invited to come to him again, rather than the man going out of his way to personally hand-deliver information. Was it a bad sign that he had come so directly, without so much as calling first? What exactly had he found? <br/>Well, at least his face looked friendly. If there were signs that foretold something foreboding, they weren’t to be found in his expression. Despite this, Arthur felt an almost irrational need to stall, as if there were a “right” moment to hear whatever Claude had to say, that he needed to create the conditions for. “Um, can I get you anything? Something to drink?”<br/>Claude smiled. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He shook his head. “I’m just stopping by on my tea break. Do pardon any intrusion - I ought to have called first, but I thought that you might appreciate a bit of good news sooner rather than later, with Christmas round the corner. Figured if you weren’t here, I could try again later.”<br/><i>Good news. Good news, Arthur</i>. “Well! I - Thank you.” In his excitement he temporarily lost his command of words.<br/>“Oh, certainly. Lovely flat you’ve got here, by the way,” he complimented, looking around.<br/>“Thanks.” Arthur couldn’t stop his eyes from going to the folder Claude held, and when he noticed that, he smiled good-naturedly.<br/>“Well,” he said, holding it out to Arthur. “Don’t let me hold things up. Have a look and see.”<br/>Arthur opened the leather folder and gazed at the single sheet of paper inside. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, at first. Its headings, or any information that would help make sense of it, were in another language - he was rather certain it was German. From the format he quickly realized it must have been something like a manifest, a list of people. His eyes scanned over the names.<br/>“This is a copy, of course - I couldn’t get away with the original,” Claude explained, standing at Arthur’s side and looking at the paper with him. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s part of a collection of documents we got when we were having our first negotiations with Germany - well, the first successful ones, anyways. So this would be from around… 1952, it would have been. I haven’t found anything later than that. At least, not so far. It doesn’t seem he’s among the ones who we found and brought back to England, unfortunately. However - I hope you find this useful. This is one of the lists we’d commissioned from all the institutions I’d told you about, the orphanage-like ones where they were holding the children. The names of all those living there. It appears that he was reported a resident of one of the two boys’ facilities just outside of Berlin.”<br/>As he listened to Claude, sure enough, he found his name in the middle of the page - <i>Hastings, Percival</i>. He shivered - there was something about seeing the family name in print, something so <i>official</i>, so immediate somehow, even in a copy of an impersonal document that had its origins miles and miles away in a place Arthur could barely imagine. <br/>It bore the reminder, of course, that the name following the comma was supposed to be, always should have been, <i>Arthur</i>.<br/>“Percy,” he whispered to himself.<br/>Claude smiled. “I thought you’d be pleased. At least you know more about where he ended up, now, there’s some certainty, there…”<br/>“The facility.” His eyes returned to the header at the top of the page, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar words. “<i>Waisenhaus Sonnewalde</i>.” He met Claude’s gaze with an intensity that seemed to surprise him. “Do you have any more information on this place? An exact location, an address?”<br/>“Oh, er… Yes, absolutely. We should have that information somewhere. Yes, I suppose I could go find that for you.” Claude paused, making a plan. “I won’t be in tomorrow - I’ve off for Christmas Eve, and the two days after that, of course… but I have most of what I need done completed already. Suppose I could find it and get it to you sometime before the end of the day.”<br/>“Thank you. Thank you, Claude. I really mean it.” Arthur couldn’t stop staring at the document in his trembling hands. “This is incredible.”<br/>“Of course. You did wonderfully in that ad for my friend. The shoes, he tells me, are a smashing success.” He smiled, and then hesitated. “But… You’re sure that… You’re not getting a bit in over your… Well.” He couldn’t seem to bring himself to bring up what he’d meant to say, and he dropped it. “I’ll find that address for you, then.”</p><p>Arthur was going to Germany.<br/>He may not have been sure exactly where yet - and he wasn’t sure how, or the precise preparations he’d make. Probably, he’d go by plane. He smiled to himself. He’d never been on one of those before. For that matter, he’d never even left the UK. It would be a bit of an adventure, he supposed. Not that he hadn’t already had <i>quite</i> his share of adventure, in at least one sense of the word, in his thirty years. He wondered what it felt like, being on a plane. Or what Germany would be like. If what he’d heard about it had been anything to go on, it might be a rather unpleasant place by now. <i>It could be very dangerous indeed</i>, he thought to himself, but his mood was rather more gleeful than grave. Which perhaps was absurd. But it seemed hardly anything could spoil the total conviction he felt.    <br/>What was on his mind, of course, far more than wondering about Germany, about how he’d get by with no knowledge of the language or really what he was walking into, was Percy. He wondered what he’d be like if - when - he’d finally be able to find him. The stories that could be exchanged. If everything went as he hoped.<br/>As sure as Arthur lived, he was coming for him.<br/>His hands moved with singular purpose as he packed his rather small selection of belongings. That was, those of his possessions that he felt he still had some use in keeping. He felt he’d do best to travel light, and so he was arranging a selection of clothes, food, some useful tools and anything he could anticipate needing and placing them in the simple, unadorned suitcase he’d just went out to buy. He still hadn’t had much of a chance to settle into his flat, which was for the best. Even though he did have some nice things here, he didn’t feel toosorry to leave them behind. With the thought of Percy in the foreground, no physical possession seemed so critical to preserve.<br/>When he heard the knock on the door, he felt his plan (which was a funny way to put it, as he hardly had one, really) falling into place. “Claude?” He called out. “Come in. The door’s unlocked.”<br/>Morgan stepped in, shut the door behind herself, and raised an eyebrow at him questioningly. “You were expecting Claude? Why?” She pursed her lips thoughtfully as she watched him “...Is this not a good time?”<br/>“No, no, not a problem. You’re alright, Morgan,” he replied airily. “I was, er, just expecting him because he’s bringing me something about Percy.”<br/>“Is he?” She asked, with a light smile. “That’s wonderful. I’m glad you two are making progress.”<br/>“Oh, me too.”<br/>She cleared her throat, uncertain. “Yes! Well, Arthur.” She held out a newspaper. “I just had to show you this. The latest editorial on our little feat at the fête.” She bubbled over with delight as she quoted from it. “<i>Such pretensions have no place in a modern country with modern sensibilities. The people of Wellington Wells and of all places deserve to be treated with dignity. Saturday night’s episode at the Annual Fête for Children and Families in Grief is a shameful blot on our country as much as the Wellies’ behaviour in the war ever was. Our refusal to confront and forgive the past will be our undoing - we must face yesterday and today, however unpleasant, with resolve and compassion.”</i><br/>Arthur picked up the paper from her, and he read and listened politely, patiently, but with detachment. He smiled regretfully. He’d almost forgotten about...<i> this</i>. How was he going to tell her…<br/>But she’d sensed it, perhaps somewhere in his face, before he’d even had the time to think over what he should say. Just for a moment, he felt cornered. For the first time since he’d left Wellington Wells, he found himself wishing people here hid their emotions behind smiley masks like they did “back home,” or the closest he had to a physical home, whatever the current state of it. But he was moving on, now.<br/>Morgan looked at him, and then the open suitcase, and she froze. “Arthur, what’s going on? Are you…? What are you packing for?”<br/>“Claude brought me this.” He picked up the leather folder that was resting on the living room table, the one containing the manifest which he’d been looking at over and over as he prepared for his journey, just to see Percy’s name there again, to remind himself it was real. He handed it to her, waiting eagerly to see her reaction as he explained. “It’s the place he - Percy - ended up in once he got to Germany. See? His name’s right there, in the middle. Claude’s going to find the address for me; he said he should have it by the end of the day.”<br/>She scanned over the document. “Wow, Arthur - this is great! There he is. I’m… happy for you. This is a big step.” She gave her best smile and offered him a squeeze on the shoulder. “But… Why, then, are you packing?”<br/>Arthur frowned thoughtfully. So caught up in his own world he had been, that he hadn’t been able to anticipate any reaction other than her completely sharing in his own excitement. “Because… Because, Morgan,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m going there.”<br/>“To Germany?” She stared at him.<br/>“Yes.”<br/>“But… But what about…” She frowned, looking completely baffled. “But you’re leaving <i>now</i>? Just like that?”<br/>“Well… Yes. I can’t wait any longer. I… I have to, Morgan.”<br/>“But you haven’t had any time to prepare. To even… To even think what you’re getting into here. You can’t expect to just walk right in and everything yields to you. There’s so much more you ought to find out before you simply…” <br/>“Like what?”<br/>“Like… Like…” She blinked, frustrated. “Have you ever even been to Germany? Do you even speak German?”<br/>“No, but I…”<br/>“How are you going to be able to…? How do you even know this <i>Waisenhaus</i> place still <i>exists</i>? What are you going to do once you get there?”<br/>“Well, once I get there I can ask whoever might know about it and figure out what’s happened…”<br/>“This was a place for children, though, wasn’t it? He’d be someplace else now. How are you going to figure that out, with only…?”<br/>“I’ll just have to go and see where it leads me. If I keep going, well… with a little luck, the answer’ll come to me eventually. I’ve just got to go out there and start looking.”<br/>“My God, Arthur. You’re not thinking this through. This just… This just seems so unlike you. You’re getting ready to go off in the middle of a country you know nothing about, packing your suitcase on the smallest bit of information and… and you weren’t even going to tell me, were you?”<br/>“What? Morgan, of course I was. Of course I would tell you before I left.” Something softened in his expression. <br/>“If I hadn’t come to you now, would you have even said goodbye?”<br/>“Don’t be - of course I would! You’d be the only person I would, matter of fact.” He faltered, trying to think of the right words to comfort her. “Morgan, really, I… I don’t relish having to leave you. Really. You’ve been a good friend to me, and you’re brilliant at what you do, and I… I don’t think I can say enough how thankful I am I’ve had your help in the past few months. But - this isn’t goodbye forever! After… After this, I’m sure I’ll see you again.” He made himself affect a positive smile. “You’ll still be living here in good old sunny South Kensington, yes? I’ll visit someday, when you’re least expecting.”<br/>She looked at him doubtfully. “How do you know…” She lowered her voice, cautiously. “<i>How</i> do you know that this is going to go the way you hope? What if it isn’t like you picture? I just don’t want you getting hurt, Arthur.”<br/>He looked at her soberly. “That’s a possibility I’ll just have to accept.”  <br/>She folded her arms, looking at the floor. “What am I supposed to tell everyone…”<br/>“Tell them that I’m doing what I’m meant to do.”<br/>She exhaled loudly, putting a hand to her head, as if she thought he were being completely unreasonable.<br/>“Really, Mo, I’m sorry to go like this, but…”<br/>“Then don’t.” Her voice was quiet. “Stay. Won’t you? For just a little bit longer. Just so that you can get this figured out. I can help you. Claude, too. We can help you prepare, so you’re not just going into this blindly -”<br/>“No. I can’t.” He squared his shoulders, resignedly. “Really, I’ve got to go. I’ve had to delay it for so long already - and who knows how long it’ll take me once I get there, like you said… I can’t keep waiting around. I’ll go mad staying here. Being poked and prodded like some exhibition, when I just know he’s out there somewhere.”<br/>“But, Arthur, we’ve - you’ve - been doing some <i>really</i> important work here. Can’t you see? Who’s going to speak for the Wellies when you’re gone? We can’t stop now, when we’ve made so much progress already. Not when they’re suffering.”<br/>He sighed wearily. “What progress? You’ve seen as well as I have, that they don’t care what I have to say. I can’t make a difference.” <br/>“But that’s only what’s happened one evening! Think of the good responses we’ve gotten already, the support.”<br/>“And for every one of these,” he pointed at the forgiving editorial in the newspaper she’d brought over, “there’s about three more ridiculing us.” He shook his head. “No, they don’t need me here.”<br/>“I just don’t see how you can... throw everything away like this.”   <br/>“I don’t ask you to understand it. I know I might sound mad. But I have to go, Morgan.”<br/>She opened her mouth as if to argue again, but then abandoned the attempt. She set her upper lip defiantly. “Well, if that’s really how you feel. Go on, then. And the best of British luck to you.”<br/>“Thank you,” he replied quietly, although she’d already shut the door behind herself, and he realized she’d almost certainly meant it sardonically.</p><p>It was getting late. Arthur had completed his small task of packing, albeit admittedly with a bit less zeal than he’d had before. Morgan’s observations had sobered him, even if they hadn’t outright changed his decision.<br/>Complicated it, though, maybe. For all his intense need to follow through in his search for Percy, wherever it would take him, he couldn’t shake a sense of guilt about leaving. It had all come upon him so suddenly that he hadn’t even considered how it might look - and being able to glimpse himself from without forced him to seriously confront the idea that maybe he was adding more onto the chain of broken promises and regrets, that he’d started leaving behind himself ever since… Well, since he betrayed Percy, he supposed. <br/>He didn’t know what to do. But no, he did! He’d never get control of his life if he didn’t seize it himself. It was clear that he had to go to Percy. Else what was the use of all this that he’d done…<br/>He felt restless. He sat down on the settee; he stood and paced around the room. He opened Claude’s folder for the billionth time; he closed it and opened a book instead, reading the same sentence over and over. It was agony just sitting there and thinking about things, but there wasn’t much else he felt he could do.<br/>When would he hear from Claude? At the margins of his awareness, Arthur’s foot tapped impatiently. Surely Claude would have long since gone home by now, he had to imagine. Perhaps he should give him a call at his home number and check in. Normally he’d be hesitant to bother, but he wanted nothing so much as to get the last bit of information he needed. Maybe, Arthur imagined, Claude had gotten busy and hadn’t had the time to contact him yet tonight. Or maybe he hadn’t gotten around to looking at all. <i>Damn it, Claude</i>, Arthur thought uncharitably, <i>I hope you haven’t forgotten</i>... <br/>When he heard the third knock on his door that day, Arthur shot up from his seat and rushed to answer it.<br/>“Morgan,” he said. It was half a question and half a statement, as he tried to evaluate the situation. She looked… Serious. Her expression didn’t portend anything good, so he tried to think of what it might mean. Of why she’d be here again, after that last conversation. Did she bring an apology? <i>No, Arthur, don’t be so full of yourself to expect she’d</i>…<br/>“Arthur,” she replied simply, kind of a regretful sigh. She closed the door.<br/>“What, er... what brings you here?”<br/>“I have some… bad news, Arthur.” Her shoulders slumped and she slid out of her coat unhurriedly, as if she were expecting this would be more than a quick visit. He noticed, then, a paper she was holding, which she switched from one hand to another as she hung the coat on the hook by the wall.<br/>“What kind of… bad news?”<br/>“I… I got this from Claude. He called me and told me what he’d found and we… agreed it would be best if I was the one to give it to you, in person.”<br/>Arthur swallowed. His throat suddenly felt unmanageably dry. “What is it?”<br/>She took a step closer towards him, and his eyes moved to the paper, but she wouldn’t let him see its contents quite yet. “Claude said that he was searching for more information on that orphanage, like you asked him to. In the folder about the place, as he was looking around, he found this… report. It would appear that there was a ghastly outbreak of polio in the <i>Waisenhaus Sonnewalde</i> in early 1954. They released a document on it, and…” She ran a hand through her hair, avoiding his gaze. “Oh, Arthur, I don’t know how to tell you this. Your brother’s name is on here. Among those that didn’t make it.”<br/>He felt the blood drain from his face as she pressed the paper gently into his hand. He was so frozen by her words that she had to all but make him take it. He almost didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to be forced to believe what she said was true, but he gathered the resolve to make himself look. He examined it: the official header, familiar from the other, earlier, document, the type in German accompanied by some handwritten translation work in the margins, and in the middle of the copied paper a short, organized list of names. And there it was, as real as anything. The same name which had made him swell with a certain pride and hope only a few hours ago. Now he felt it as if it were a stab of ice through his chest. He suddenly found it difficult to remain standing. Numbly, he found his way into the adjacent kitchen, collapsed into a chair and slumped against the table, head buried in his hands. He was very distantly aware of Morgan following him and the sound of her pulling out a chair and gingerly taking a seat across from him, but he wasn’t hearing a word she was saying.<br/><i>No. Percy can’t be gone.</i><br/><i>He can’t be. He didn’t deserve this. None of it. </i><br/><i>God. Oh, God. I can’t imagine him, him… breathing his last breaths there. A captive in an unfamiliar country, knowing nobody. He never made friends easily. He’d have been… all by himself. What would he have been thinking, in those last moments? What would he have thought of the world? That it’s a cruel, unrelenting place. ...He might have been right about that, but he could have had so much time left to see something better.</i><br/><i>He’d have just barely been a man. He didn’t get to see good in the world. Never got to grow into the brilliant lad he was supposed to be. He never even… he never even had a chance. </i><br/><i>I stole it from him.</i><br/><i>I never got to say I’m sorry. Maybe it wouldn’t have done any good. But at least maybe it would have… I don’t know.</i><br/>He felt totally and abjectly helpless.<br/><i>Why am I such a worthless person? Was I always this way? Was I just born like this? I just got the short end of the bloody stick? Somebody - argh, I don’t know - somebody up there had to meet their </i>absolutely revolting human <i>quota for the day?  </i><br/>“Arthur.” He finally heard her voice, when it was right beside him. He detected her standing there, though he couldn’t move himself to sit up and look at her.<br/>“How could I have… <i>How</i> could I...” He mumbled disorientedly, still lost in a bitter deluge of self-loathing and grief.<br/>“Arthur, it’s not your fault. How could it have been? It was a disease. Those… They just happen sometimes. Especially in places where there’s a lot of children.” She sighed, unsatisfied. “I know you know that. At least… At least it would’ve been a peaceful way to pass on.” He felt her touch on his shoulders, massaging in a noble attempt to console him.<br/>“I… I could have been with him. He didn’t have to be alone. If I’d done what I’d really said…” His voice broke off abruptly as he got that funny, strangled feeling in his throat. It felt like it was closing up painfully when he tried to say anything.<br/>“Shh. It’s alright to cry. Let yourself cry, if you have to. We’re going to get through this, Arthur, I promise.”<br/>He swallowed and tried desperately to get a hold of his emotions. But he couldn’t even bring himself to feel properly embarrassed at his inability to keep himself together. Any other time, he’d have been mortified getting this way in front of somebody else. Especially in Wellington Wells, where unhappiness was essentially an unwritten crime punishable by death.<br/>He was stiff against her fingers, not accepting them there. He didn’t believe that he deserved remotely any source of comfort.<br/>“I really am sorry, Arthur.”<br/>He squeezed his eyes shut and tried hard to adequately put into words what was going through his mind. <br/>“...What I did has… has followed me all my life. Try as I might to think otherwise. It’s always been there, somewhere. Following, that is.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “I guess I know now... that it always will.”<br/>There was a period of silence. Morgan sighed in sympathy. “Time… Time makes everything better. Hard to see that, on a night like this, I know. But I’ll stay here with you as long as you need.”<br/>He couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit of relief wash over him. Even though in that moment he felt so far away from anything happening external to himself, he was aware of some sense that he didn’t want to be alone. And he wouldn’t have exactly known how to say that.</p><p>Gwen was getting big enough that she could sit up now, with a smidge of help. Sally had only realized this a few days ago, and so she hadn’t yet been out to buy a proper high chair. But she’d done her best makeshift work at the kitchen table, setting her baby daughter up so she was elevated securely in the chair, and she’d set out a few simple toys within her reach. When she was alert, like she was now, she was more and more curious about the outside world, learning to pick things up and watch her own influence exerted on them with total absorption. Sally was watching her dotingly whilst splitting her attention between her and the stove, making sure her pot wouldn’t boil over.<br/>It would have felt strange to cook anything special for Christmas Eve, when it was just herself living here with Gwen. Although, she had justified to herself the indulgence of picking up a little mince pie at the local baker’s. It felt like it had been a long time, and she wanted to see if it tasted anything like how she’d remembered. The ones they made in Wellington Wells during the yuletide of late had been dry and rather tasteless. Most spices had become rare as gold, and so had butter or any sort of animal fat.<br/>So for herself, tonight, she was making just a simple dish that she’d throw together any evening. For Gwen, she was making something, too. It was getting to that time where she could begin to introduce her to solid foods. So for her special meal, she was boiling a small amount of dry peas into a mush.<br/>She stole another glance at Gwen, and looked again to her cooking. As soon as she’d gotten old enough, she remembered, her mum had begun to enlist her help with Christmas dinner, instructing her on the various components. It was kind of like chemistry, she thought. If she thought about it hard enough, she could remember a lot of what she’d learned then, even though she hadn’t really ever made a proper Christmas dinner all by herself.<br/><i>mum was always keeping me busy.</i> And if it wasn’t assisting with the cooking, it was keeping her younger sisters occupied so that Mum could focus on the preparations. That was the price she had had to pay, she supposed, being the oldest of three children. But it wasn’t all bad, she thought. She had fond memories of running about with excitement and playing with her siblings during Christmastime, or of leading them all in putting together long chains made out of coloured paper.<br/>It was a nice time, Christmas was. Mum and dad did their best, with what they had, she thought, to make it special.<br/>One year, not <i>awfully</i> long, she thought, before the parents got the notice that they would have to surrender their children and everything changed, she’d seen a toy chemistry set advertised in a magazine, aimed at all the “young men of science.” She had begged her parents to get it for her; she swore she wanted nothing more. But Mum had laughed and told her outright that “girls don’t do such things.” Dad more gently had informed her that the price was an awful lot, and he wasn’t sure if Father Christmas had much to spare that year, what with the war on.<br/>But these were better times. Sally finished what she was cooking for herself and she covered it and set it aside. It would be a while yet before she would eat; she wouldn’t serve herself before her daughter ate. So she picked up the little bowl of peas that she’d set aside to cool and brought it over to the table, sitting across from her.<br/>“Mummy’s brought you something new, Gwen.” Sally leaned forward and lifted a spoonful of the peas, which Gwen tracked curiously with wide eyes. “You’ll give it a try for me, won’t you, love?” Initially Gwen turned her head away, but after a few attempts on Sally’s part she apparently gave in and decided to sample the spoonful of the unfamiliar substance. <br/>Gwen did not appear impressed. Sally laughed. <br/>“I know. It’s not the most exciting thing. Especially not when compared with your milk. But everyone’s got to learn to eat their vegetables.” She got another spoonful of the mushy peas and tried unsuccessfully to feed it to Gwen. Sally smiled knowingly. “I’d have made you something a bit more festive, given the occasion, but I don’t want to give you anything that’ll hurt your tummy… I know you haven’t a clue what it means, but tomorrow is Christmas. I’ve got a prezzie for you. It’s nothing much, but I saw it in a shop window and it reminded me exactly of the one I used to have as a girl. A soft little black and white cat. A cuddly toy cat, of course! I’d lose my mind if I had a kitten to take care of on top of everything, ha… But, I loved him, the kitty I had. Named him Mousey. Of course, you can name yours whatever you like… Once you’re old enough to care about that.”<br/>“Ba buh ba ba.”<br/>“Yes, darling. Well, I’ll give him to you tomorrow morning. We’ll spend the day nice and cozy at home, and mummy won’t work a bit so she can give you all her time. How does that sound?”<br/>“Aah.”<br/>“Lovely.”<br/>Sally smiled and continued her efforts to introduce Gwen to solid foods for a few moments more, but when it became clear that she had been as adventurous as she’d liked for the evening and she had begun to fuss for want of her bottle, Sally didn’t force the matter any further. She set down the spoon and went to retrieve the bottle from the kitchen counter. As she scooped her up into her arms, she went to take a seat on the chair facing her flat’s biggest window, holding her as she looked out onto the darkened street below.<br/>The bitter cold of the past few days had warmed just enough to keep any precipitation from freezing up, and so, considering the gentle fall of raindrops passing through the light of the streetlamp, it was looking that it was shaping up to be a rainy Christmas.<br/>Sally thought, in spite of herself, of Wellington Wells. They were going to send investigators to the city, or whatever was left of it, she had heard on the news. What kind of evening were the Wellies having, as she sat here in relative comfort and contentedness? What had become of the people she knew back there? They didn’t deserve this, Roger and James and Dr. Faraday and Nick Lightbearer and Mrs. Pankhurst and Edmund MacMillan. Even those who were relatively less innocent had to have fallen victim to the chaos. What would have happened, she was loathe to find herself considering, to Gwen’s father, up there in his soot-stained tower when all he’d worked and lied and connived his way to create came crashing down around him? <br/>The answers were far removed from her, across the country and the Severn Estuary, unknown yet hopefully not unknowable. Gwen, done with the bottle now, dozed in her arms. Shadows of passing cars, much fewer than usual, passed by while rain trickled down the drainpipe beside the window. And somewhere far, far in the distance, Haworth Labs lay in ruins.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. King Arthur and His Roundtable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>‘Cause I’m king of the world</i><br/>
<i>Walking along with my head in the clouds</i><br/>
<i>Head in the clouds, while your face gets lost</i><br/>
<i>In the walk of the crowds</i>”<br/>
	The Quik, “King of the World”</p><p>It was December 31st, 1964, and Sally didn’t know what to make of that.<br/>
How had so much happened in so <i>short</i> a time? It had felt like ages, years, since she’d left Wellington Wells. How long ago had it actually been, when she left? Late October? Perhaps early November? She hadn’t exactly had the chance to check. But either way, regardless of when she had left, how did she go from being scorned by the one man she’d ever felt safe with, to travelling from town to town in the English countryside with no connections and a baby on her hip, to working as a shopgirl again in a big city pharmacy, and then inventing a new pharmaceutical and starting up a completely new drug lab in her new terrace flat? The range and sheer <i>amount</i> of experiences that had somehow been able to fit into that little time was flummoxing, such that even though she knew the new year was coming, she could barely believe that they were getting ready to turn over the page on a new calendar already.<br/>
Well, it was December 31st all the same, and Sally knew well enough what that meant. She had celebrated her share of those back in the Old Country with drinks and Joy and dancing. Those years, most likely for better than for worse, were behind her. And though maybe part of her missed the excuse to go out and enjoy herself, she quite liked the way her life looked currently. This year, she’d anticipated to spend the night in, just a quiet evening with Gwen, perhaps a glass of wine and a book.<br/>
That was, if that pesky Maxwell hadn’t made it his business how she did or didn’t choose to spend her night. She laughed to herself. <i>damn you, max. pulling a poor young single mother out onto the freezing streets to wait for you on a pitch-black evening. you said you’d be here fifteen minutes ago</i>. She pulled her coat a little tighter around herself.<br/>
“<i>You don’t want to come along?” </i>He’d goaded her, with childish indignation.<i> “But Sally, it might just be the biggest evening of the whole year.</i>” <i>well, it’ll be the last, anyways.</i> “Anybody <i>who’s </i>anybody <i>will be there. You can’t pass up this chance to meet new clients - think of how much you could expand your network.</i>” He’d shaken his head as if he couldn’t believe what she was saying no to. “<i>Besides, when was the last time you went out for a party? Since you had the baby? You owe it to yourself to have a night off. Come on, let yourself feel free for a change. It’ll be fun.”</i><br/>
She’d prickled a bit at his suggestion that she’d somehow become less “free” or “fun” as a mother. She might have still turned him down simply because, as usual, she didn’t have anyone to look after Gwen. But that actually wasn’t true. She had Brigid. Dr. Kirlew, apparently, had kept Sally’s Go operations a secret. Or at least, if word had gotten out, it hadn’t been reflected at all in the behaviours of the one friend she’d made at DPK’s. Brigid had been offering a lot lately to look after Gwen, and more than once she had asked Sally why a “vivacious” young woman like herself wasn’t planning on going out and ringing in the New Year. She said that she knew what it was like trying to raise a child all on one’s own and missing out when all the girls she knew were going out to the cinema and having dances, and she would be more than happy to have Gwen for a night whenever she needed a break. If Sally wanted to go out on the 31st, she offered, Gwen would be in good hands for as long as she needed.<br/>
Neither of them, Brigid nor Maxwell, in their own ways, would let the topic go, and Sally had to admit she was curious, so she finally acquiesced. Thus she had, for the very first time, entrusted Gwen in the care of someone else for a night. It had sounded simple enough when she’d agreed to Brigid’s offer, but in the moments before she actually did it, it had been almost too much for her heart to bear. As she’d walked up the steps of Brigid’s semi-detached house, daughter in her arms, she had been seized by worry and felt herself wavering in her decision. She had seriously considered turning back around at the last minute and cancelling her plans, but she knew Maxwell wouldn’t understand the constant anxiety and guilt that came with being a mother - how she could never really be fully <i>away</i> from her child, no matter how distracted she might be in any given moment - and she didn’t want to make up some lie or lame excuse for him and for Brigid on whom she’d be rudely cancelling. She pushed herself, then, to be alright with it, even when she didn’t want to be, and now she was looking forward to whenever Maxwell would finally get there so that she could have someone to talk to and take her mind off her anxieties. <i>max, if you stand me up tonight, i swear to fuck -</i><br/>
But of course, there he was. He seemed out of breath in spite of the fact that he’d bolted up to the space beside the pavement in front of her flat on his moped scooter.<br/>
“Sally, I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was getting. I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he gushed, his breath rushing out as steam in the cold air.<br/>
“Too long?” She crossed her arms. “A minute longer and I’d have frozen into a block of ice right where I stand.”<br/>
“Sorry! I’m here now, though!” He grinned.<br/>
She walked over to him and hesitated. She found herself wondering what she had been expecting - this was the mode of transportation he always seemed to use to get around in the city, so why not on the way to what he’d attested as the city’s biggest New Year’s celebration?<br/>
“Well? Hop on, then. Don’t be shy.” He slid up further on the seat to make space for her behind him, flashing a friendly smile.<br/>
She’d never ridden on one of these scooters, and she had hardly even seen one - so incredibly rare of a sight they were in Wellington Wells - but she’d often been curious what it’d be like on one. She went to carefully lift herself onto the seat, and Max put out his hand to help - a little awkwardly, as his good arm was on the other side from her.<br/>
As she adjusted herself on the seat, she found herself asking a question that left her feeling silly even as she said it. “Are you able to drive this thing properly, with your arm…?” She blushed, then. “Sorry - sorry, you obviously are, otherwise... I’m not sure what I’m thinking.”<br/>
He turned his head to look at her and smiled, apparently taking the comment good-naturedly. He seemed to be used to this sort of thing. “Ah, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up. Surprised it took you so long; most people say something as soon as they notice.” He chuckled and waved limply with the affected arm. “It’s not totally useless, my left arm. It’s just like… You know, if you’ve ever slept on your arm wrong and it went all dead, that’s what it moves like. Except I don’t really notice it by now. I’m adjusted.”<br/>
“How…” She started to ask, feeling a little shy. “How did it happen?”<br/>
“Ah. Well. It’s not as exciting a story as some people like to imagine.” He laughed bashfully. “Got the polio real bad when I was about fourteen. <i>Paralytic poliomyelitis</i>, they called it. Almost didn’t make it, actually, since I couldn’t breathe. Lost muscle control in much of my body, but luckily it came back everywhere ‘cept there. Don’t know why.” He shook his head. “But sometimes I tell people it’s from an injury I got in a fight with a tiger in the jungles of Bengal, just for kicks.”<br/>
“Oh.” She placed a hand on his shoulder sympathetically, laughing along with him. “You poor thing!”<br/>
“Do you want to pinch it?” He proffered his arm, slowly and carefully. “For whatever reason, all the birds like to make a game of trying to pinch my arm. Think I wouldn’t be able to feel it.” He winced. “I <i>can</i>, actually. For the record.”<br/>
She laughed and made a face, gently pushing it away. “Of course not! Why would I want to do that?”<br/>
“Ha, well. Thank you for sparing me. But - oh, yes, right, the scooter.” He tapped the handlebar of his vehicle. “Yes, it’s a bit difficult for me to use the clutch lever on a regular one, so I had them custom-wire this one for me in the shop. It’s set up so I can operate all the hand controls with my right hand. So... you’ve nothing to worry about. I’m the safest driver this side of the Thames.” He twisted the throttle and with a lurch they began to zoom down the street. He raised his voice to be heard over the din. “I’ll get you there in one piece, or my name isn’t Maxwell Lymington!”</p><p>Maxwell hadn’t been kidding when he’d talked up the size of this event. The huge, ornate ballroom was filled to the brim with people outfitted head to toe in the most daring fashions and modern music filled the room through giant speakers as people chatted and laughed ebulliently over the noise. A massive banner near the entrance announced, in red letters, “HAPPY NEW YEAR 1965,” and streamers and balloons lined the high walls which stretched ahead far past where Sally could see. The lights were rakingly bright and cheerful above them.<br/>
As they deposited their coats in the coat check, Sally almost worried that she and Maxwell would look out of place among such a colourful crowd, in their sharp but simple outfits: his sleek midnight-blue suit with gold details and her yellow shift dress with a white centre stripe. Mostly she felt dazed as she walked through the energetic fray who all seemed enthralled by their own conversations. She didn’t know the first place to start, but luckily Maxwell seemed to have an idea about it.<br/>
He linked his right arm with hers and he chattered idly to put her at ease while his eyes sought out people he knew in the crowd - which, Sally quickly found, seemed to be a significant proportion of the people there that night. “I heard Reggie Quince is here,” he was saying, or “Oh, oh, Dana Thompson is supposed to be here tonight, we simply can’t miss her…” and Sally had little clue who he was talking about or why they were important, but Maxwell enthused and introduced her to everyone all the same.<br/>
“<i>I want you to meet my dear friend Sally</i>…”<br/>
“<i>Tell me, mate, have you tried a little something called Go? No? You haven’t? For shame…”</i><br/>
<i>“Oh, yes, everyone is trying it these days. You know how I used to swear by Dexys? Mm. Never again. Yes, I’m a Go man, now.”</i><br/>
“<i>Sally is simply the grooviest, the most sensational chemist I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. You’ll love working with her.” </i><br/>
She kept up with the whirlwind of hobnobbing rather well, she thought, as Max darted from one thing to the next. They were gradually progressing to the other side of the room, nimbly making their way through the crowd. And the further they got, the more they saw of an apparent excitement in the crowd, a drawing of more people to one end of the room - a denser throng gathered to spectate on... something. Sally wondered what it would be. Was there a stage there, some hired entertainment? Dancing, perhaps? Yes, that was probably it. But as they got closer and closer, she realized it didn’t seem to be a performance, exactly, though what exactly it was she still wasn’t quite sure. She stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. A smaller group of people were somewhere at the far end of the room, slightly above the rest of the crowd, it seemed, and that’s what everyone was looking at.<br/>
“What do you think that’s all about?” She asked Maxwell.<br/>
He shrugged. “Don’t know, but let’s find out.” He looked around the room; his eyes were drawn by the second tier of the ballroom, a small gallery level that a few partygoers had apparently found their way to, observing the festivities from a higher vantage point. There were two girls leaning over the railing and looking down at the scene, and Maxwell seemed to recognize them. He gave a big wave to catch their attention, and managed to yell audibly over the crowd. “Rose! Valleri! What’s happening? Can you see what everyone’s crowding ‘round about?”<br/>
“You haven’t heard? It’s the Wellie!”<br/>
“Arthur Hastings? <i>He’s </i>here?” Max’s head darted around wildly, trying to catch a glimpse. “But I’d heard he wasn’t supposed to make it tonight, he wasn’t going to… Oh my God. Sally! He’s here!”<br/>
She didn’t say anything, but in his excitement Maxwell didn’t even notice. “Well, come on then. Let’s see if we can have a look!” Eagerly, he pulled her along with him, and she was too stunned, too disoriented, to resist.<br/>
<i>stupid. stupid stupid stupid stupid.</i><br/>
<i>fucking hell Sally, how could you be so stupid?</i><br/>
<i>i can’t believe i let myself fall right into this one. i wish i’d stayed at home... </i><br/>
<i>the biggest party of the year. that’s what Maxwell said it would be. everyone important would be here. silly me for not stopping to think who might be included in “everyone.” </i><br/>
<i>of </i>course<i> he’d be here.</i><br/>
Maxwell had a way of easily clearing a path; he commanded a certain respect that Sally distantly noted was rather unfamiliar, far from what she experienced. Maybe it was one of the perks of being a man. Or perhaps it was just because he was just well-liked.<br/>
At this end of the grand room there was a fittingly grand staircase, which spilled out, wave-like with Baroque decadence, over a great deal of the floor, curvaceous lines of white steps that flowed to their feet. A few steps up, in the center of the smaller group that was standing around and that she could now see, was him.<br/>
Fucking Arthur.<br/>
He didn’t look at her - he wasn’t really looking into the crowd at all. But she saw him clearly. He was dressed in a burgundy suit which was made of some fabric with a satiny finish. She was still a good few metres away but in the strong light it appeared to be some sort of subtle jacquard pattern, a contrast of shiny and matte textures, and beneath it he was wearing a white shirt with no tie... and it looked quite good on him, actually, but that wasn’t the point -<br/>
<i>look at him… look at him... swanning around up there. like he fancies himself the… the king of the world or something. </i>He was talking, explaining something, apparently, to an enthralled gathering of apparent friends who had gone quiet to hear him. The small group of fashionable men and women assembled around him were kowtowing to him, hanging on to his every word. <i>king arthur and his whole bloody roundtable.</i><br/>
He had on one of those tissue paper crowns, the kind that came out of Christmas party crackers, but it had fallen down comically low on his forehead so that it touched the tops of his specs. He was holding a glass of something that sloshed as he gestured carelessly and spoke to nobody and everybody at the same time. He was two sheets to the wind already, she observed, even though the New Year had to be still a couple hours away.<br/>
“The Wellsian man needs no watch,” he proclaimed broadly, stretching his arms out with uncharacteristic pomp. “No need. No need, I tell you. What’s that, you ask - ‘ow do we know if we’re late to work? We don’t. Everything’s decided on... fuck-all nothing.”<br/>
“<i>Yes, yes</i>,” a few subjects of his audience assented, as if they knew personally and first-hand exactly what Arthur was talking about.<br/>
“Tea breaks, coffee breaks, Joy breaks… party breaks, six or seven in total. On a good working day. The isles of Wellington Wells have thirty days paid public bank holidays every year. What need would a man have to tell the time, when he has all the time in the world?”<br/>
There was an assorted chorus of agreements, nods, and a smattering of laughter as Arthur’s loyal court followed along with undivided attention. “Oi, you don’t suppose you could direct me in the way of the Wellsian labour exchange, could you?” One man teased from among the crowd. “Think I found paradise, lads.”<br/>
Arthur just laughed, acidly, finishing whatever was left in his glass and wiping his mouth indiscreetly on his sleeve. “Ah. ‘Cept it’s not really, um, labour, is it? More like…” He guffawed. “Fancy bullshit titles for doing nothing all day. N’ the papers just pile up over our heads. You know, I’ll let you in on something, I don’t think anyone’s done a <i>whit</i> of real work in several years. Before all this madness started, that is. And - and you know what? You know what?” He pivoted dramatically on his feet and struggled briefly for balance, facing the other half of his friends. “Good for them. Good for us. Why bother? Why bother, I ask. When one little pill is your all-expenses-paid for a holiday from life, why bother with <i>it all</i>?” He jabbed the air with his empty glass, pointing forcefully at nothing in particular.<br/>
“No, the Wellsian man doesn’t need <i>ambition</i>, or <i>discipline</i> or, or <i>punctuality</i>. He… - or she! Or she, yes. I worked with many brilliant ladies. Prudence, for example, now she was a bright… oh, what was I saying - right, um. No watches. And if the Wellies need no watches, what use, then, could we ever have for a watch-maker?” He pulled back his sleeve and, with a few attempts, got the watch that was secured to his wrist off. “So I don’t even know - I don’t even know who made this. But Morgan said I should have it. So you know, I’ve got it.” He held one end of it aloft, the small timepiece dangling precariously as Arthur looked at the object distractedly, as if it had no particular meaning to him.<br/>
“<i>Careful</i>!” Somebody squealed. “It’s expensive!”<br/>
“Right, right.” He stowed it away dutifully in his blazer pocket, looking around at the people he had been speaking to. He seemed to notice for the first time that he’d attracted more of an audience than just his friends standing on the steps. His eyes passed over where Sally was and she hoped to <i>fuck</i> that she didn’t stand out in this crowd. “Er…” He blinked, unfocused. “Does anyone remember where I was… Oh, right. Yes.” He swallowed, and Sally realized for the first time the disconcerting emotionlessness in his gaze when he wasn’t animated by the disjointed spiel he’d been going on. He turned to one of his friends that was standing there with him. “So, to answer your question, Wally, it’s just gone half past nine.”<br/>
Maxwell turned to Sally, and his expression was one of total captivation. “Can you believe it?” He asked, voice hushed. “He’s <i>wild</i>, absolutely <i>mad</i>. The man’s a bloody phenomenon. He sends me, he sends me!”<br/>
“I…”<br/>
He nudged her. “I’m going to go try and have a chat with him. Do you think they’ll let me talk to him? Oh, come on, let’s go, eh? Let’s go meet the Wellie.”<br/>
Sally, however, had other ideas, and in fact, plans that most certainly did <i>not</i> involve that. She slipped her arm out of his at the very moment that he surged forward and made for the stairs, and she seized the opportunity to make her escape. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed to get out of there. She would figure that out later; she just needed to get away from this bizarre spectacle. She didn’t know what to make of it, but it was so uncomfortable to bear. She had stood there listening to him, unable to look away as one might be unable to look away from a raging house fire or some other disaster, but she’d broken the spell and had to get away. It was all too much, and she needed air.<br/>
She broke for the nearest door, which was on the opposite side from the mouth of the stairs where Arthur and his friends were. She threw it open, hoping that it would lead her outside, but instead she emerged in a hallway dimly-lit with lamps on little evenly-spaced endtables.<br/>
Still, she’d take this instead. She leaned against the wall, breathing and trying to decide what to think. The longer Arthur’s speech - if you could call it that - went on, the more she had begun to question her initial observation that he was enjoying himself. Was this the life he chose?<br/>
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there in the hall, trying to settle her nerves, before she made up her mind to go. She couldn’t stay. There was another door ahead of her, and she didn’t know where it led, but she figured if she kept going for long enough she’d reach the coat check again and then she could get out of there; and as for Maxwell, well, she’d just have to leave a message with the clerk there giving some excuse, like she remembered she left her stove on, or something like that, so that he wouldn’t worry too much, for there wasn’t anything that could keep her there for any longer than -<br/>
Before she reached the end of the hall, she heard the door that she’d passed through open and close behind her. She froze, feeling her heart drop into her stomach.<br/>
“Sally.” The voice was quiet but unmistakable.<br/>
She felt the hand on her shoulder and she turned around, slowly.<br/>
Arthur looked different in this light. There was a sort of ill-looking pallor to his face that she wasn’t sure whether or not to deem a product of the way the shadows fell. His eyes were glazed but somehow they managed to seem both sincere and, beneath that, profoundly… hollow, harrowed.<br/>
“I thought it was you. My God. Sally, I can’t believe -” He sought for words. “I’m so glad you - I thought you - I didn’t know if… I thought you were still back <i>there</i>. I was worried something could have happened…”<br/>
She folded her arms. “You were... <i>worried </i>about me? Well then you had a rather strange way of showing it.”<br/>
“I… I couldn’t stand to think you’d be alone, that I’d left you and you’d be stuck there with…”<br/>
“Why? Because I’m helpless? You think I needed someone to<i> rescue</i> me? I can <i>assure</i> you, Arthur, I can more than take care of myself. I thought you knew that. You must have thought so when I was sixteen. Why else would you have sent me out into the street?”<br/>
Arthur looked helpless. “That’s… That’s - you’ve a point, there.” He shook his head, and he seemed like he was trying hard to focus his thoughts and not slur his words. “But! But. Please don’t leave. Please, I… I’m sorry, I… Please, I want to talk to you.”<br/>
Walking away from him hadn’t yet even crossed her mind, but she wasn’t sure if she should let him know that. She stayed where she was, waiting. “Well? Go ahead.”<br/>
“Sally, I…” He sighed heavily. “Made a mistake. I should never’ve… I should’ve stayed with you. There wasn’t… There wasn’t any reason to go, anyways. I should have… I should have waited.”<br/>
She watched him, conflicted. They were words she’d longed to hear, but somehow his admission of his mistake didn’t feel as vindicating as she’d hoped. It just felt… Sad. Her chest heaved quietly.<br/>
“I know… I know I can’t change the past. I under...stand if you want me to go away. I just… wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” He seemed to feel the inadequacy of his words and to be tremendously weighed down by them. He popped the cork off the small bottle that she just realized he’d been holding, and took a swig straight from the container. She couldn’t read the label clearly, but guessed it was scotch from the smell on his breath.<br/>
“What are you... Arthur? What are you doing, drinking like that? Do you <i>want </i>to kill off the last two bloody brain cells you still have left, after all the Joy?” <i>ouch</i>. The reproach <i>may</i> have come from a place of genuine concern, but it had come out far sharper than she’d intended. She regretted it right away. She was upset, after all, but not <i>hostile</i>. This wasn’t how she intended it to go - what she’d wanted to say if she ever saw him again. Though... she wasn’t really sure how she <i>did</i> want it to go. “Sorry,” she sighed. “I only meant…”<br/>
“Percy’s dead.” He explained it simply.<br/>
“What?”<br/>
“Yeah.” He set the bottle down on the table beside him and then raised his gaze to her again. She stared in shock.<br/>
<i>...your move, Sally</i>.<br/>
“Oh my God. I… I’m so sorry, Arthur. I didn’t… How did you find out?”<br/>
“My… My friend, her brother found it. He works for the government, so I had him looking for files. There was a report, from Germany… He got ill. Percy, that is. Nineteen, um… fifty four...” His voice trailed off.<br/>
“Ill?”<br/>
Arthur swallowed. “Polio.”<br/>
“No…” She felt the dangerous impulse of almost wanting to hug him - but she slammed the brakes on that. The way he’d frozen up, passionlessly, when she’d made the mistake of trying to kiss him that night she met with him back in the Garden District still reverberated in her mind. “Percy was such a sweet kid. That’s… That’s horrible.” What could you even say to somebody going through that kind of anguish?<br/>
Arthur avoided her eyes. “Yeah...”<br/>
“What are you going to do, now?”<br/>
He didn’t answer. When he spoke, his voice was small, splintered. “You’re the only one I have left…”<br/>
She bit her lip. She was torn, torn between the impulse to offer him some comfort and the urge to protect herself. She gently rested a hand on his arm, tentative and light as a hummingbird. When she answered him, her tone was not unkind. “Why did you do it, Arthur?” All the anger and accusation were gone from her voice. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to ask him this, when his hurt was clearly so raw, but… What she would do next depended on his answer. She had to know. “After I told you I had a baby, I… Did you just not care? Or were you… Scared?”<br/>
She felt him freeze beneath her touch. “A… Baby?” He looked around the hall disorientedly. “Like… You mean a… a <i>child</i>?”<br/>
“Yes, Arthur. My daughter.”<br/>
“Your… You didn’t tell me… You didn’t say you… <i>What</i>?”<br/>
“...I did, Arthur. I told you, and…” She drew in an unsteady breath. “You just looked at me, and then you kept going.”<br/>
He looked aghast. It actually seemed genuine. Could it really have not… sunk in? ...Or, had it been just so <i>unimportant</i> to him, his relationship to her so instrumental, and thus the detail so irrelevant that he didn’t bother remembering? Was he turning to her now just because he was grieving and she was the last familiar face from his past, or did he really regret it?<br/>
He put a hand to his forehead. When he spoke for himself, it was strained. “Sally, I… I really… Oh, good Lord. I didn’t really leave you after you told me... Did I? I... don’t remember that.”<br/>
She shook her head. “Arthur, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about it. It’s done, now. It’s alright.”<br/>
He squeezed his eyes shut. “No, it isn’t, I… Why didn’t I…” He took his hand from his face, abruptly. “<i>Wait</i> a minute -” he slurred. “Wait a minute. <i>How</i>… did you have a child? It’s not possible. Joy is a contra… con… ceptra-contive.”<br/>
How badly she wished this conversation could be happening at conceivably any other place, at conceivably any other time. At the very least, in some instance where Arthur wasn’t hopelessly fucking plastered. She sighed, feeling impatient. She didn’t know why, but she had a feeling of dread creeping up from her spine to her skull, as if time was running out, but she didn’t know for what or why. “Yes, but I wasn’t taking regular Joy. I was on my own formula,” she explained. “Did… did you think I was lying?” She asked softly, feeling hurt.<br/>
“No - no! No, I… But you said… You said you hadn’t slept with anyone for ten years.” She couldn’t read his expression, but it felt as if it were an accusation. Besides, she hadn’t the slightest where he was getting that notion from.<br/>
“No I didn’t. What the hell?”<br/>
“I… Thought you did.” He rubbed his temples. “I don’t know, Sally. Maybe it was just what I wanted to hear.”<br/>
“Of course. Go ahead, judge me for it. I’m a loose woman. I know you think it. Always making <i>friends</i>. I’m just a -”<br/>
The door flew open behind Arthur. He was too stunned to even react to it, but Sally watched as two people, a blonde girl in a two-toned party frock, and a man with rather long and straight caramel-coloured hair and a sharp jaw filed in swiftly. “Arthur, <i>there</i> you are!” The woman chided in a high, plummy quaver. “I was worried sick about you. You can’t keep running off without telling me where you’re going.”<br/>
Arthur glanced at the woman, but he didn’t seem to be listening. He responded only to Sally, looking utterly defeated. “I don’t think that, Sally... I don’t.”<br/>
“Are you bothering this young lady?” The woman turned her attention to Sally, then, a diplomatically apologetic look on her face. “Terribly sorry, miss.”<br/>
“Oh, come on, treacle,” said the man, who must have been just as much off his tree as Arthur and who’d come in behind the woman. He draped an indecent arm over the blonde and rested his head on her shoulder, using her to balance. He flashed a grin at Sally. “Let the man alone. Our Arthur’s done no crime. Let him pull a bird if ‘e wants.”<br/>
Sally decided to ignore him. She spoke to Arthur instead. “Who’s she?” She asked, gesturing to the unknown woman. She couldn’t see for certain in the lighting, but she looked almost like the same girl who’d interviewed him on the telly. She wanted to hear Arthur’s answer.<br/>
“My manager,” he identified, blankly.<br/>
“His <i>handler</i>,” the other man snorted.<br/>
The woman - ah, so that would be her, then, what was her name? - shoved the man’s hands off her. “Oh, come off it, Vinn.” She scowled and then - so fascinating it was how quickly she could change her expression - smiled sweetly at Sally. “Again, so sorry.” Sally watched as… <i>Morgan</i> grabbed Arthur’s wrist and tried to yank him away. “Come on, Arthur, let’s go,” she instructed, through teeth Sally swore were gritted. “The people are getting restless. They’re wondering where you’ve gone off to.”<br/>
Arthur stayed standing there for a moment, then gave in to Morgan’s tugging.<br/>
Sally felt like she wanted to scream, or cry. <i>i’m losing him</i>.<br/>
<i>do something, Sally.</i><br/>
“Hey, Arthur, where’s your crown gone?” Vinn asked, nudging him. “I’ll ‘ave you know that was a <i>personal</i> gift from yours truly. I’ll throw a strop if you’ve lost it.” Arthur said nothing.<br/>
“My God, he looks awful. He was doing so well… I shouldn’t have lost track,” Morgan said to Vinn as the three of them moved further down the hall, footsteps echoing. “Let’s get him a glass of water.”<br/>
Vinn cackled. “Eh, ‘e’ll be alright. Just give him another pint and he’ll be sorted out. Right, Arthur? Attaboy, attaboy…”<br/>
Sally felt her stomach turn.</p><p>She was successful in her attempt to leave the building, this time. She hadn’t even bothered to get her coat, but she didn’t mind the sting of the cold on her skin, or she hardly felt it. She just crumpled down on the marble steps, looking at the moon and not knowing what to do.<br/>
<i>i shouldn’t have said those things the way that i did. i was as nasty to him as… as he was to me, when i tried to help him back in Wellington Wells.</i><br/>
<i>god, even after all this time, i look at him and still see that scared little boy he used to be. he’s always had such a… pitiful little frown. like a hurt puppy. like i could swear it’s only moments ago, not years, that he was asking me if i would go up with him to see his mum’s coffin in her grave one last time, before they buried her... as if i would’ve said no. it’s fucking scary, there’s just something about him that makes me feel like i could give up everything. i don’t think there’s any other man that could do quite the same. </i><br/>
<i>but… i don’t want to be helpless again, i can’t sacrifice myself for someone who doesn’t feel the same, can i? especially not when i’ve got a daughter of my own depending on me. </i><br/>
<i>he’s clearly in a horrid way over all this. and i don’t think i trust his friends. especially not that </i>manager<i> girl. i wonder if he’s sleeping with her. </i><br/>
<i>...not that it matters to me! no, something about her just seems off. </i><br/>
<i>at the very least, i could have controlled myself enough to, i don’t know, not make him feel worse than he clearly already does. you’ve always got to ruin everything, don’t you, Sally?</i><br/>
<i>i can’t believe Percy’s gone. it just doesn’t sound right… i always thought we’d see him again.</i><br/>
<i>oh, Arthur... what’s happened?</i><br/>
Sally didn’t hear the lobby door open behind her. She jumped when she felt something being placed on her shoulders.<br/>
“Sally, there you are.” It was Max’s voice. She felt heartsick. “The clerk said he thought he’d seen you leave. Said you didn’t say anything or even take your coat.” He settled the wool garment on her shoulders, wrapping it around her gently. “I was hoping you’d be out here, that you’d not gone far.”<br/>
He carefully lowered himself beside her on the cold stone step. She let out her breath, drawing her knees closer to her chest. He’d expect her to explain herself and comfort him, reassure him that she was okay, and the idea made her feel exhausted. “Sorry, Max. I guess I meant to leave a message… I’m going to get myself a taxi, I think.”<br/>
“How come? What’s wrong?” He leaned closer to her. “...Your makeup’s running, love.” He took out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.<br/>
She dabbed carefully at her cheeks, more for his sake than her own. Funny, come to think of it, even after everything, since she left Wellington Wells she’d barely had a chance to let herself cry. There hadn’t been time for it.<br/>
“...I heard you were talking with that Arthur bloke,” he continued, probing gently. “Do you know him, from back<i> there</i>? What did he say?”<br/>
She folded the handkerchief up and looked at him. She took a deep breath.<br/>
“Sorry, sorry,” he quickly revoked, “I… I won’t trouble you with it. You don’t have to tell anything. I was just hoping I wasn’t going to have to punch him out for the sake of your honor. I’m not exactly the… punching-out sort of guy, if you haven’t guessed.” He smiled crookedly.<br/>
She only gave a ghost of a smile at that, but he didn’t seem to mind her silence. After all, he could talk enough for the both of them.<br/>
“Listen… I’ve got an idea. I think we can still salvage this evening. We’ve still got more than an hour before the new year comes in. How about, if you’re up for it, we can leave behind all these sods and have New Years at my flat instead.”<br/>
She turned slowly to him. She was surprised, at that. Anyone could’ve told that he was having the time of his life back in there. He seemed totally in his element when he was dashing like a madman from person to person, catching up on all the latest. He was an odd fellow, Max. One moment he’d be rash and the next moment he’d be responsible. She wasn’t sure which he was being now.<br/>
“Are you sure?” She hesitated and then gestured with her head to the ballroom building. “No, get back in there. I’ll find my own way home. I don’t want to keep you from your evening.”<br/>
He shook his head. “No, I think I’ve had enough for the night.” He stretched, and she eyed him suspiciously, not believing it, but feeling at least a little moved that he was willing to pretend he wasn’t bothered. “It’s alright if you don’t want to, though. If not, I’ll just take you to your place and then go back home myself. Just thought it’d be a shame to waste your one night of freedom...”<br/>
Well… Maybe she was foolish for considering it, but it seemed a better prospect than either trying to stop herself from anxiously knocking on Brigid’s door and waking her to retrieve Gwen early, or else lying in bed awake half the night. At least if she went with Maxwell she wouldn’t be alone with her thoughts.</p><p>It was the first time she’d been round to Maxwell’s flat. She hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not <i>this</i>. The living room was filled with all measure of fanciful objects and toys. He had shelves and shelves of God-knows-what, bits and bobs and trinkets, and even parts of the floor were scattered with model trains, cars, boats, and dioramas of various feats of architecture that he appeared to have been working on, or perhaps abandoned.<br/>
His flat was a cluttered carnival of colours. It was almost a surreal experience to be walking in there, in her current mental state.<br/>
“I’ll take your awed silence as approval, then, Sally. Most people <i>are</i> rather fascinated by my collections. As you can imagine, parties at my flat are very highly coveted events.” He laughed.<br/>
Many objects out of the vast array of what he had were too big for containment on a shelf or display on a table, and stood of their own accord, tucked into corners of the room with the same authority as pieces of furniture. Sally didn’t even know where to begin placing her eyes.<br/>
“I’ve got… a bit of a penchant for robots right now, machines. That’s been my latest obsession. I spend my afternoons reading about them and as often as I can I call up local inventors, kids in uni and all that who are doing some tremendous work, so I can come round and see what they’re doing. I barely half understand it all, but I like buying ‘em. See -” he wheeled around and pointed at a large, squarish clunky metal object that looked like it weighed about a tonne. He got even more animated than usual, it seemed, when he was talking about his various acquisitions. “This one here, she puts butter on your toast. Was a bit too big to fit in my little kitchen, but she’s fantastic. You barely even have to lift a finger, and your toast is buttered for you. Works a charm. Can even change how much you want on. Isn’t that brilliant?”<br/>
“Wow, Maxwell. It’s… Certainly huge. Where do you… Where do you get the… How do you pay for all this?”<br/>
He looked sheepish. “Oh - um, my father… Is a rather important man,” he admitted.<br/>
“Is he?”<br/>
Maxwell nodded, and his attention was quickly pulled by another of his gadgets as they toured the little room - at least, it looked small, with everything in it. “Mm. Oh, here, right here, I’ve <i>got</i> to show you my atomic clock. Fantastically accurate. It’s set perfectly, down to the millisecond, oriented with the Greenwich Meridian. We’ll count down to the New Year with the help of this girl.” He patted it affectionately. “Speaking of which…” He checked the time. “Looks like we’ve got about forty-five minutes left. But… What the hell. Nobody ever made a law against celebrating early. Except maybe that Cromwell fellow. I don’t remember; I never passed my history exams. Ha. Well, hold on, I’m sure I’ve got a bottle of champagne around here somewhere…”<br/>
Maxwell invited her to sit down on the couch, and she did, while he went off to search for the champagne. She distantly heard his efforts as he searched about energetically, a loud clank or two sounded in his haste and a “Shit!<i> ...</i>I’m alright, don’t worry!” She wondered if he’d helped himself to a Go or two before the evening had begun.<br/>
“Alright, I’ve got it!” He dashed out of the kitchen, managing to precariously hold the bottle, two glasses, and a corkscrew all in the crook of one arm. He set them down carefully on the low table and plopped himself down next to her on the couch. “Care to do the honours, Miss Boyle?”<br/>
She gave him a bare smile as she picked up the implement. “...It’s been a while,” she admitted. Imported spirits were another one of the many commodities that had become rare as gold in Wellsian society.<br/>
“Oh, ha. Me too, I think. I don’t have it often. Just keep it around for emergencies.”<br/>
“It’s going to go everywhere,” she complained, pessimistically. She turned the bottle over in her hands, and stood up, moving away from the furniture. “I don’t want to be the one to get champagne on your couch! So unfair of you, picking me.” She laughed.<br/>
He chuckled and stood with her. “Oh, it’ll be alright. Don’t worry. I trust in your abilities. But here, I’ll even help you. If it goes wrong, then, you can blame it on my clumsy arse.” He stood behind her and placed his hand gently over hers - the one that held the corkscrew - guiding her along.<br/>
“You might as well just be doing it by yourself,” she observed with a wry laugh.<br/>
“Oh, but then that’s no fun, is it?”<br/>
“Are we having fun?”<br/>
“Well, I don’t know,” he teased. “Are we?”<br/>
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You certainly seem to be. All this fuss over going to the biggest party of the year but you’re just as happy to be at home, making excuses to help your drug dealer open a bottle of champagne. A thrilling night.”<br/>
The cork came out with a pop, and, somehow, only a little of the champagne splashed out in the release of carbonation.<br/>
“...See? That wasn’t so bad. I’ll clean it up later.” He grinned at her as she poured them both glasses of the pale bubbly liquid. He picked up his drink and clinked it against hers as he sat down again.<br/>
“To 1965!” He toasted.<br/>
“...To 1965.”<br/>
It was her first glass of the night, but it wasn’t her last. One had led to another and before long she was realizing that Max had only had maybe two for his part, while she’d boorishly drained the rest of the bottle almost entirely by herself. She didn’t know why she did it. It had just been too tempting to forget, even if just for a few hours, to banish Arthur from her mind, not to mention everything else that was always pulling at the edges of her sanity, the constant parental guilt and uncertainty and always the drive to survive, to find some way to eke out a life with what she was given…<br/>
It felt like no time at all had passed by the time the New Year was upon them.<br/>
“Sally! Sally!” Maxwell had been the one to realize it, with a start, and he nearly tumbled out of his seat. “Sixty seconds left! Look!” He leaned forward in his seat, watching his prized clock with enthrallment. She couldn’t stop herself from giggling. She was glad that he, at least, could get excited, or pretend to get excited, about something so silly as watching the time pass - or at least it seemed silly to her under the circumstances. <i>poor Max, having to ring his new year in like this, with me of all people…</i><br/>
She stared at the clock’s mechanical display, listening as Max started to count down. “9… 8… 7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”<br/>
He opened his mouth to say something - well, she could’ve guessed what words would’ve been on his lips - but whatever it was, she didn’t get to hear it. She lunged forward and put her lips on his.<br/>
Why? It had felt like the thing to do. Here she was, alone in some man’s flat on New Year’s Eve (well, now day), so close beside him she could feel the warmth of his body, with several drinks having gone around, and the big countdown pulling them later into the evening hours. She knew well enough where this was leading. He’d be feeling like he’d done her a favour by trying to “save” a night that she knew even then never really could be salvaged, couldn’t be fixed with denial, drinks, or even the kind, uncomprehending embrace of the best robot collector this side of the Thames. But this was, she reasoned, what he’d be expecting.<br/>
He seemed surprised at first, but he didn’t resist. He kissed her back, his hands quickly finding a safe place on her shoulders.<br/>
When they broke away, she could tell he was flushed. He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose and smiled sheepishly. “That was - wow, Sally, I - I don’t know what to say, I…”<br/>
She kissed him again, putting into it all her heartsickness, her frustration, her desperation to just let it all sink into oblivion just for a moment, just for a little moment, even if she knew all-too-well that was the fatal impulse that had given Joy so much power...<br/>
Somehow - perhaps it was after five seconds, perhaps five minutes, she found herself in his lap. Her hands explored blindly, smoothing out the cool-to-the-touch, sturdy fabric of his blazer. Her fingers found the buttons that had stood out before in their golden hue, only to find that they were actually snap closures and not buttons at all. She smiled into the kiss, almost impishly, as she undid them one after the other.<br/>
But Maxwell broke away. He made himself lean back from her, hesitant as he looked her over.<br/>
“Sally…” He ran a hand over his hair. “You’ve had a few...”<br/>
“What about it?” She heard her own voice with a level of remove, sounding almost defiant in her ears.<br/>
“Mm... Believe me, Sally, I’d love nothing more, but are you sure…” He frowned thoughtfully. He placed his hands over hers where they rested at his sides, letting her go no further. His voice was gentle. “Let’s get you home, alright?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Happiness Is a Choice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Here we go! Sorry my updates have been sneaking a bit later now. I'm getting closer to the end of the semester and there's a bit more writing to do for my classes.<br/>Shout-out to Ben, who knows who he is, for catching a sneaky bit of foreshadowing I did in Chapter 13 and figuring out what Sally figures out in this new chapter a bit ahead of the curve. All the cookie points for you :^)<br/>Unrelatedly, I wonder what happened with the weird little objective markers (☒) I was using as a sort of semi-funny device to move action along and recall the actual gameplay. When I started writing and peppering them in I thought they were clever, but I seem to have lost them lately and now I don't know what to do with em, hahaha.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>Arthur, we know and we sympathise</i><br/>
<i>Don’t you know it? Don’t you know it?</i><br/>
<i>Arthur, we like you and want to help you</i><br/>
<i>Somebody loves you, don’t you know it?</i>”<br/>
The Kinks, “Arthur”</p><p>Arthur felt as though he’d gotten into a particularly nasty altercation with a Jubilator.<br/>
He blinked blearily, a white ceiling coming into partial focus above him as his mind revved like an engine on a freezing day and he briefly tried to figure out where he was. He turned his head, seeing the blank walls of the little room, his coat hanging upon a hook, the door to the adjoining restroom.<br/>
<i>Still alive. Shit.</i> It was just his flat. Which meant that things were still as fucked as they were before. And he still had to deal with… everything that meant.<br/>
Except, he didn’t actually remember how he got here. With a grunt, he pulled himself up so that his back was flat against the baseboard of his bed, and he looked down at himself. He was laying there, he discovered, still in his suit, fully clothed and on top of the eiderdown. He even still had his shoes on.<br/>
But still, he’d managed to get back here to his flat last night. That was… good? Maybe. It was better than probably most alternatives he could imagine.<br/>
Groping around, he was relieved to find his glasses right next to him on the bed. He shoved them onto his face and tried to think.<br/>
What <i>had </i>happened last night? The memories were vague and fuzzy and they only came piece-by-piece, incomplete. <i>Christ, it’s as bad as being on Joy.</i><br/>
He’d been… at a party. <i>Alright, good start.</i> Yes, it had been a big party, of some sort. And Morgan had him try the fruity cocktail drink she’d ordered, enthusing about how nice it was and he should get one, telling him to be careful and pace himself, but he’d favoured the hard stuff instead. Which explained the throbbing in his head, although he already surmised that much. <i>What happened to you, Arthur? It didn’t used to feel this bad, did it? </i>Of course, the fact that he’d drank himself practically all the way through the past… - week? - probably played a role as well, even if he was too stubborn to acknowledge it. Time was just… just passing, that was all. If he didn’t have to feel it go by, then all the better.<br/>
But… Something had happened, last night, hadn’t it? Something significant. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the progression of the evening. <i>Maybe I don’t </i>want <i>to remember it. Heh.</i><br/>
But there was some part still left in him that wanted to remember, deep down. Or at least there must have been, because the memory and the feelings tied up with it were dredged up from somewhere with a vengeance.<br/>
Sally was there. He’d seen her in the crowd, and he’d gone after her, and they’d spoken, and… and… He must have fucked it up somehow. Of course he did.<br/>
He remembered she’d been mad at him. He deserved that, probably. He remembered how she’d looked, so betrayed and hurt and... He ached just to have just one clear memory of their conversation, just one bit of what she’d said.<br/>
And then he got it.<br/>
<i>She said she had a fucking baby.</i><br/>
<i>Jesus Christ. Sally… my Salamander, a mum.</i><br/>
<i>She always was getting herself into reckless situations. </i><br/>
<i>...And what a fucking corker of a situation that must have been. They… they don’t exactly, um, take</i> kindly<i> to mothers and children there, do they? I can’t even imagine how she managed to hide a living, breathing... God, if only I’d been there with her. Maybe I… I don’t know. Could have helped…? I would’ve at least been able to try.</i><br/>
<i>I couldn’t have known she had a child and left her just the same. Leaving her behind felt horrible enough, but turning my back on an innocent child in - oh, I don’t know, only perhaps the single deadliest place on Earth for a mother and baby?</i><br/>
Arthur felt his stomach roil. Then there was the option he didn’t want to confront - that perhaps he did actually hear her, and he’d been so caught up in his search for an estranged brother who had been dead all along anyways, that he made himself numb to it. And faced straight ahead and left just the same.<br/>
<i>How would I have forgotten </i>that, <i>though? I know the little bits of Joy that might’ve been in my system probably wouldn’t have helped my case, but something that important?</i><br/>
<i>Maybe… Maybe it was something in that Coconut Joy they injected me with. That was some… rather hard stuff, after all.</i><br/>
<i>Yeah, that was probably it. That could’ve made me forget. A casualty of the Coconut. I wonder how many others there were. </i><br/>
<i>Or - or, maybe it happened after the mine collapsed. After I made it cave in, that is. A bit of a shock to the head, I got from that. That could cause someone to forget something important as Sally Boyle having a fucking baby... couldn’t it?</i><br/>
And then again there was the thought that he really, really, didn’t want to have. Namely, that he’d forgotten and it wasn’t anything to do with Joy, or head injuries, or anything physical, but that he’d <i>made</i> himself forget. That was, that he’d acted unabashedly on his own interests but knew he wouldn’t be able to live with knowing he was <i>that </i>horrible, and so he’d forced himself to push it away and pretend it never happened. <i>Brilliant.</i><br/>
It hurt to think.Worse than that, the more he thought, the more he became aware of the twisted-up knot in his stomach.<br/>
He pulled himself off the bed, opened his bathroom door, and thankfully got the toilet lid up in time before he had to taste the remnants of his whiskey again.<br/>
He didn’t hear her when she entered his flat. Nor did he hear her when she walked into his bedroom, or crossed the threshold of the bathroom, to find him there on the floor. He jumped when he saw her, and it was enough to set his world spinning again.<br/>
“Paying the price, are we?” Morgan wrinkled her nose as she watched him vomit again.<br/>
“Eugh,” was his answer, as he tried miserably to wipe his mouth with his bare fingers. “How did you get in?” He breathed. “I didn’t forget to lock it, did I?”<br/>
“No,” she said pointedly, “<i>I</i> didn’t forget to lock it. I have a key, remember?”<br/>
He couldn’t say he did.<br/>
He lifted his eyes to her face. She’d taken a couple of steps closer and was now standing over him, seeming impossibly above him from his perspective. “Well?” She asked. “Are you done?” She gestured toward the toilet handle. “Let’s not keep it around any longer than we have to, shall we?”<br/>
“You’re cross with me, aren’t you?” It was an observation, more than anything else, too hopeless to be anything other than unemotional and unrepentant. She’d been so nice to him the night she’d broken the news. <i>Nicer than I could ever deserve</i>. But things had seemed to change so quickly. She apparently expected Arthur to simply get over losing Percy, and when she wasn’t fretting and worrying over him as if he were a recalcitrant child, she was constantly finding something to be upset with him about. This time he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Still, as he looked at her, he remembered that he had indeed done something else at the party worth remembering, after speaking with Sally and downing what must have been a considerable further amount of liquor.</p><p>In another room, somewhere far away, a television played the latest from England. The famous man from the small island protectorate off the southwestern shores of Great Britain was caught on camera going on a drunken spiel that had, apparently, <i>“captured the attention of his fans and detractors alike</i>.” The recording’s profanity had been censored for broadcast.<br/>
“<i>Thisis all so… bloody pointless. Pointless! That’s what I’ll tell you. I don’t have any...one. I don’t even have… I ‘ad a pet gecko back in that shithole, did y’know that? He’s probably dead now. Little fellow never liked me much anyways. ...S---. Always bit my finger. But tha’s not all. I had… I had… I had a brother. I had a brother back there. That’s right. A brother. He went on th’... train. His name was Percy. And he died. Percy’s dead. The horrible thing is, he didn’t even need to. It’s my fault. And that’s… that’s just the end of the f------ story, innit?” </i><br/>
“Love, are you still watching that? You’ve given the bastard more than enough of your attention. I just… hate to see you going through it all, all over again.”<br/>
The telly clicked off. </p><p>“Cross with you? About what?”<br/>
Arthur flushed the toilet and sighed. “About what I said last night. Causing a scene. Look, I can’t help it if I talked about Percy,” he argued, defensively. “It had to happen sometime. I can’t forget him, he… he’s all I can see when I close my eyes, these days.”<br/>
“What? When you told them about your brother? Oh, no, no Arthur, I’m not cross with you about that.” She laughed. “Of course not. No, it’s actually a good thing, you see! I’m quite pleased with you. It’s generated publicity. People feel sorry for you - this has really made them sympathise. I would consider it a… happy accident.”<br/>
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “Great.”<br/>
Her smile cracked, but she shook it off. “I brought you something to help with… All this.” She gestured vaguely towards him.<br/>
“A bit of hair of the dog?” He asked, hopefully.<br/>
“No. Lucozade. My mum used to make me have it every time I was ill. But it’s good for after you’ve… overindulged, too.” She displayed the bottle she’d been holding. “It comes in this lovely orange cellophane, see? She always cheered me up by showing me you could hold it out in front of your face and see the world all bright and happy.” She stripped off the plastic wrapping that covered the bottle and handed it to him.<br/>
He stretched it out and just looked at it, observing the orange-coloured world with no particular interest.<br/>
“Well. I thought it was fun, anyways.” She frowned and then broke the seal on the bottle, handing it to him. “Here. Drink it. You’ll feel better… eventually.”<br/>
Well, that was promising. He took the bottle and examined it. “REPLACES LOST ENERGY,” the label proclaimed. <i>Think I’ve lost a lot more than that. </i>He took a swig of the sweet, lukewarm beverage.<br/>
“You can’t keep doing this, you know.”<br/>
Arthur set the bottle down beside him on the tile floor. “Doing what?”<br/>
“Getting sloshed, the way you’ve been doing. With the tour coming up, you’re not going to be able to keep on like this, you’ll need to -”<br/>
“I’m not going on tour.”<br/>
She put her hand on her hip. “What do you mean, you’re not going on tour? You’ve got to. We’ve been around nearly every part of London by now. We’ve got to spread your story all throughout the U.K. Now, while there’s still such a desire for it. Time’s of the essence, Arthur. With all the Wellies coming in from the islands, you won’t be as much of a rarity anymore. They’ll lose interest.”<br/>
“Well, let them. I’m not going. I can’t.”<br/>
“Yeah? And what’s your preference, then? To just lie about and drink the rest of your life away? Hm? Is that your big plan for the future?”<br/>
“...No.” Arthur <i>may </i>have been only thinking moment to moment lately. But there was something else he knew he needed to do.<br/>
She sighed. “Look, I understand you need something to ease the pain, but there’s too many problems… Oh, God, why do I bother. Let’s talk when you’re feeling a bit better. You’re not thinking right.”</p><p><i>“The mystery disease - what is it?</i><br/>
<i>Reports from Wellington Wells indicate the discovery of what is believed to be a previously unidentified disease, possibly endemic to the isolated isles. Estimates are that it could affect as many as thirty to forty percent of the population coming out of the region. The nation’s top researchers are convening to study the mystery illness. Little still is known about it, but observational evidence suggests that the disease causes extreme sensitivity to light, breakdown of cognition, and violent tendencies, all of which make it exceedingly difficult to treat in its later stages. Today, the first ‘homegrown’ case of this new disease has been announced - a nineteen-year old nurse from Ilfracombe claims to have received it from one of her patients. But, Aleister Goodrow, head of the NHS, advises us not to worry. The best of medical science has been dispatched to remedy the problem immediately, and the infected will be receiving the highest quality of treatment.”  </i><br/>
<i>the plague.</i><br/>
<i>well that’s... concerning.</i><br/>
<i>but we can handle it, right? Britain - the Mainland - is a huge place, and they seem to have things like this put together a lot more than the Old Country did… surely we’ll be able contain the spread before it causes any problems.</i><br/>
In any case, Sally had more important things on her mind right now.<br/>
Namely, getting some rest. In spite of all the champagne the night previous, she still woke up at the crack of dawn, thinking of Gwen. It must have been instinctual by this point. As soon as she possibly could be, she was over at Brigid’s house, rushing through her thanks and pleasantries and Brigid’s reports on how<i> lovely, positively lovely</i> Gwen was - and Sally’s relief was such that she hardly could feel her headache. So delighted was she to have her daughter back, she swore she’d never leave her with a babysitter again.<br/>
Things felt right again in that moment, even if they weren’t, really. The last night had certainly added some new complexities into her life, hadn’t it? She still had Arthur to think about, and then on top of that, this whole matter with Maxwell, which might come back to bite her later. God, why had she let herself kiss him?<br/>
<i>i’m sorry. i said it was just going to be you and me from now on, Gwen. that i wouldn’t let myself get distracted any longer by... silly boys. well, i guess i failed. </i><br/>
Sally had gotten Gwen down for a post-feeding nap this afternoon with a bit of fuss, but she hadn’t even been frustrated by it. She was just happy now that she could click off the TV and have some quiet, and she was just lying down upon the couch when -<i> of course</i> - she heard a knock at the door.<br/>
“Bloody hell,” she muttered to herself. She considered briefly that she might simply not answer, just let it go. But she pulled herself up anyway and went to check it.<br/>
She didn’t know who she was anticipating - Max, probably - but this certainly was the last person she would have expected.<br/>
In the doorway, prim, proper, with a full face of makeup, was the girl from the interviews. Morgan.<br/>
“Hello?” Sally said, more a question than a greeting.<br/>
She smiled brightly and extended her hand. “Sally Boyle? I believe we met last evening, at the New Year’s party? I’m Morgan Stone.”<br/>
“I… Suppose we did.” She hesitated and shook her hand, feeling uneasy. “How did you get my address?” There was only one person she could think of who could’ve let it slip: “...Maxwell Lymington?”<br/>
“Who? Oh, no, no. I thought it was common knowledge?” She tilted her head innocently. “Among those in the know, that is.”<br/>
<i>shit. well that’s just lovely, isn’t it?</i><br/>
“I do apologise if I’ve been a… bit forward. But I thought perhaps you could help me.”<br/>
“What do you need help with?”<br/>
“I heard that you specialize in pharmaceuticals.” Morgan stepped in, uninvited. “I… Have a bit of a problem. You’re from Wellington Wells, aren’t you?”<br/>
“...Why?”<br/>
“Do you know about Joy?”<br/>
She laughed a little, bitterly. “How could I avoid it?”<br/>
“Does it have a… noticeable taste, Joy?”<br/>
“It’s awful. Tastes like straight petrol.”<br/>
“Is there any way to… cover it?”<br/>
“Most of what little sugar we had went to coating the pills. Although the water supply was, er, <i>enhanced</i> with it and somehow it never seemed to have that… taste. I never did figure out why.” She smoothed out the fabric of her dress. “Perhaps you simply don’t notice it when you’re… happy.”<br/>
“Well…” Morgan tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, shifting from one foot to the other. “You don’t believe you might be able to figure out the formula, might you? For Joy?”<br/>
“Oh.” She held up her hands. “I… Don’t do that. It’s… It’s not what you think it’s like. It’s not exactly something to <i>experiment</i> with.”<br/>
“No, no, it’s not for me. It’s for a client.”<br/>
“A… client?” <i>a</i> <i>client</i>?<br/>
“Yes… You see… I have this client who I’m… concerned about. He’s taken up such a beastly habit of drinking lately, and that does impose such a difficulty on his work, you know. But I thought - if he could have some Joy, just a little bit, he could give himself… relief, without the nasty mornings-after and awful moods and slurred words.” Sally shivered involuntarily. The way Morgan could smile about that, as if this was the most casual thing in the world...<br/>
She took a step back. “No. Sorry. It’s not a service I offer.”<br/>
Morgan waved her off casually, as if “no” were negotiable. “I’ll pay whatever you need. If there’s anything that might facilitate the development, I’ll reimburse you for it. I’ll need it as soon as possible. And I can offer a down payment straight away, of course. How does… three-hundred pounds sound to you?” She smiled in a way that she must have thought persuasive.<br/>
Sally swallowed and tried not to let Morgan on to the fury that seized her. “No. I’ve told you, I don’t make Joy. Not for anyone, and not for any price.”<br/>
“But -” Sally could see Morgan’s façade cracking - she must have seen the determination that Slly felt steeling over in her own eyes. “Well - well, you’ll think about it, won’t you?” She requested, backing away. “Think of what I’m offering you - I just ask that you make one teensy exception to your... <i>rule</i>. You’d stand to make much more than -”<br/>
“I’m not interested! Do I have to tell you a third time? Who do you take me for? I want no part in <i>any</i> of this. And even if I did - you’d be the last person I’d agree to <i>help</i>.”<br/>
“Well - have a... good day -”<br/>
Sally closed the door. She walked over to the couch and fell down onto it, her mind running faster than she could keep up with.<br/>
<i>she thinks i haven’t got a fucking clue!</i><br/>
<i>it has to be for Arthur. it just has to be.</i><br/>
<i>who else could it bloody be?</i><br/>
<i>god, that’s the last thing he needs right now… i can’t believe she… well i can.</i><br/>
<i>“does Joy have a flavour?” what the hell was she planning on doing, slipping it into his…</i><br/>
<i>oh. f u c k. no.</i><br/>
<i>i knew she was not to be trusted. there’s something… just… not right.</i><br/>
<i>Arthur must really be taking the news badly. well, of course he is. that’s his brother.</i><br/>
<i>he’s not in a place to stand up for himself. he’ll let Morgan just… do as she pleases until there’s nothing much left of him.</i><br/>
<i>but what exactly can i do? just ring him up and say, Arthur, your manager, who you probably trust quite completely and who you’re probably fucking and… well she’s trying to bloody poison you! you need to get out quick! i’m sure that’ll go over wonderfully. it’s not as if he’s always been a stubborn git, and oblivious to boot. </i><br/>
<i>there has to be hope. there always has to be… </i>some <i>kind of hope. and i’m so afraid he’s run out of it.</i><br/>
<i>i need some way to pull him out of this. if i could just find one thing to be hopeful about…</i><br/>
<i>but what can i do?</i><br/>
<i>who do i even really </i>know<i> out here, besides Arthur?</i><br/>
<i>i don’t even know any other Wellies here. and i’m not exactly… excited with the idea of trying to seek out my old neighbours. </i><br/>
<i>but… i do know a half-Wellie.</i><br/>
<i>Maxwell. of course! he said… he said he was Wellie on his father’s side. </i><br/>
<i>and that would be… the same father who’s “rather important.” wouldn’t it?</i><br/>
<i>a rather important Wellie? don’t suppose that’s something i ought to know about, do you?</i><br/>
<i>what the hell. maybe there’s something there? there’s no hurt in trying, is there? i was hoping to put off talking to Max for as long as i could but i’m... more than desperate enough to warrant it.</i><br/>
She seized the phone and dialed his number. He picked up after only the first ring.<br/>
“Hello.”<br/>
“Sally.” He sounded… relieved? “I’m so glad you called, I…”<br/>
“Your father.” She had no time for any pretense.<br/>
“My father?”<br/>
“Yes. Who is he? You said he was a Wellie.”<br/>
There was a certain shyness in his voice. “Oh! Um. Yes. How come you want to know about <i>him</i>…?”<br/>
The words came out in a stream, choppy and rapid-fire. “It’s Arthur. Arthur Hastings. When I was talking to him last night, I found he’s <i>really</i> not doing well. His brother was on the train to Germany, and he just learnt he died from polio before he could see him again. In one of the… In one of the camps they kept them in, or whatever it was. I don’t know - I don’t really understand how he knows, or what the Germans really did with the kids, but... I need to help him. I just thought there’s got to be something… You’ll help me, won’t you? There’s got to be something we can do to help him.” She heard the urgency in her own voice but she made no effort to hide it. Maxwell was a good man. He’d do what he could. Right?<br/>
Of course, she’d thought that about Arthur too, but that was beside the point. Whatever she may have thought about Arthur - she’d properly figure that out later - right now he needed someone.<br/>
There was silence on the other end of the line. She was almost about to speak when Maxwell finally did.<br/>
“...Polio, you said?”<br/>
“Yes?”<br/>
“That’s impossible.”<br/>
“What?”<br/>
“What year was it?”<br/>
“Um… He said… It was nineteen fifty something… Early fifties, I think?”<br/>
“My mum had all the children vaccinated in 1952. There was an experimental vaccine this scientist had come up with, an oral one, like a liquid or something. My mother was one of its biggest champions. You see - after she’d seen me go through what I did, she didn’t want any other child to suffer like that. And… And because my dad was involved with the search for the children and all those negotiations, and it… well, I suppose that really made an impression on them both, and so it was on her mind right when they’d found where the children were in Germany. She funded a group that went into all of those places and had all the children get the vaccine.”<br/>
Sally blinked. “Oh. Well… Well maybe… Well maybe it was before then. Or maybe they missed Percy with the vaccination. He always did behave a bit differently, never liked... unfamiliar foods - it wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d refused... And it was experimental, you said. Perhaps it wasn’t perfect.”<br/>
“Hm.” Maxwell paused again. “No, I don’t think so. Well, my mum was always sure about it, anyways. Totally adamant that all of them had been protected. She’s... not all herself these days, though, so I don’t suppose I’d be able to ask her…”<br/>
“That’s alright, Maxwell. I… Thank you.”</p><p>Arthur had to do all he could.<br/>
Sally really <i>was</i> the only person he had left. The only person left who’d understand.<br/>
Of course, it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t about him - what she could <i>do</i> for him. He chastised himself for thinking about it in such terms. She was more than that.<br/>
It wouldn’t matter whether she understood or not, or even whether he felt he owed her some sort of duty after all that they’d been through.<br/>
It was what was right. Whatever had really happened that night at Sally’s flat, when he’d left he was leaving his best friend, the one person he’d trusted with the things - ...some of them, at least - that he’d never tell anyone else. And he was leaving her with a child, in the land of Breeder Riots.<br/>
He may have been forever too late with Percy, but perhaps life hadn’t completely given up on giving him opportunities to pull himself at least a few centimetres out of the hole he’d dug himself into. If he had any chance of doing it, he had to set this right.<br/>
There was no guarantee she would be receptive; she’d seemed… well, quite reasonably upset, and hurt. Arthur felt daunted by his odds and the effort it would take when, well, he’d never really been so good at these things, had he? - but not discouraged. Motivated with a new sense of hope - the first, possibly irrational bit of light in the darkness he really felt since Morgan had told him the fate of his brother - Arthur had done his best to feel as though he were alive in this world again. He washed away the smell of vomit, got himself dressed, shaved, forced himself to swallow a proper breakfast along with a few aspirin, and he set out on his mission.<br/>
He’d been surprised with how easy it had been to find her. He’d considered the small list of phone numbers he’d kept on the table beside his phone, the few people that he’d had any need to contact personally, considering Morgan usually facilitated that. He wondered if any of Morgan’s friends might know anything about her. Considering Sally had made it to the party, Arthur made an educated guess that she must have made herself at least somewhat known in the local social scene.<br/>
Well, all he could do was try and find out. He had Graeme’s number there, in case he needed to coordinate any matters related to transportation, and he’d decided to ask him.<br/>
“Oh, Sally? Sally Boyle, is that right? Aha,” he’d teased with a knowing tone of voice. “Somebody’s going to <i>Have a Go</i>, is that right?”<br/>
“I, er… Pardon?”<br/>
“We are speaking of the right Sally, aren’t we? Sally Boyle, the chemist. She came up with the replacement for Dexys? That everyone’s using?”<br/>
<i>Well, pardon my lack of contemporary wisdom. I’ve been a bit </i>busy <i>lately.</i> “...No, yes, that would be... her.”<br/>
“What do you want with her, if not Go?”<br/>
“I, um… I was wondering if you knew anybody who might know where I might find her.” He scratched his head. “Her address,” he added, uselessly.<br/>
“Where she lives? Oh, no, no - she doesn’t do it that way. You’ve got to call her and set up an appointment. She’ll tell you where to meet her. That’s just the way she does it.”<br/>
<i>Wait a minute. This wouldn’t be… this wouldn’t be the ‘Wellie who makes drugs’ I’ve heard about, would it?</i><br/>
<i>Shit, Arthur, how could you be so dense? Of fucking course it was her!</i><br/>
“You have her number?” It couldn’t be that <i>simple</i>, could it? Everything <i>always</i> had to be complicated. “Can I just… have that, then? Please?”<br/>
“Of course, of course. Here, I have her card somewhere…”<br/>
“Great.” Arthur hesitated. He didn’t know why he’d felt the need to add what he said next, but he did it all the same. “You… You won’t tell anyone I asked, will you?”<br/>
“Why?” He laughed. “Worried Mo’s going to get all sulky?”<br/>
“No. Just…”<br/>
“Don’t worry… I’m an honest man, Arthur.”</p><p>Calling Sally hadn’t exactly been the easiest thing to work up to, and he spent far too long doubting himself and pacing and trying to plan what he’d say, which dissolved immediately as soon as he heard her voice, anyways. But he was further perplexed by how… seamlessly it had gone off.<br/>
Well, perhaps it was a little premature to say the call had gone well. He wasn’t really sure what to make of it. She’d been brief, but not - he didn’t think - terse. Sort of… urgent, and for what reason he could only guess. To his apologies she insisted that she needed to see him face to face, and he felt himself go tense. This could be good or bad, and how was he supposed to figure out which?<br/>
Well, there was one way, which was, of course, to go to the address she’d given him. Her address. He didn’t spare any time in finding it, and when he walked up the couple steps to the little terrace house it led him to, he only hesitated a little before he knocked.<br/>
He took a deep inhale. “Sally… Sally, I’m sorry.” He held her gaze steadily. “About last night, but more than that, I’m sorry I was so shit to you. I’ve really… made some questionable choices, but if there’s any way you might be willing to, er, to work things out… it would be… really nice to be your friend again.”<br/>
“Arthur,” she breathed. Gently, she took his elbow and pulled him inside. “Listen… I’m sorry, too.”<br/>
“You are?” Arthur knitted his brow. <i>What for?</i> Oh, God. Was there something he should know and he didn’t?<br/>
“Yes. Last night.” She smiled, sadly. “I shouldn’t have been so…” Arthur watched her face, carefully. She seemed conflicted, wanting to say something - and then she did, abruptly. “Arthur, are you <i>sure</i> it was polio?”<br/>
He blinked a few times. “That… that Percy had?” He swallowed. “Yeah. It said so in the paper. I mean, it wasn’t in English, but it’s… yeah. It’s the same word.”<br/>
“I… I don’t want to get your hopes up, Arthur, but I think there might have been some sort of a... mistake. You don’t still have it, do you?”<br/>
“W...Why?” He stared at her, uncomprehending. “A mistake?”<br/>
“My friend, he… He said all the children got vaccinated. His mother was invested in it, a pet cause, I guess, and she wanted to ensure none of them would get it. Polio, that is.”<br/>
Arthur shook his head. “But that’s clearly not true,” he insisted obstinately. “How could there be an outbreak of polio if they’d gotten a vaccine?”<br/>
Sally looked away and rubbed her arm.<br/>
“Oh, God. No. No. You’re not thinking. Tell me you’re not thinking… Sally.” He tried to meet her gaze, desperately, looking for a sign. Panic and betrayal flooded his veins, making his head light. This couldn’t be happening. No. “Morgan couldn’t have - how would she have been able to...  She wouldn’t, would she? But she… Oh, <i>fuck</i>! I’m an idiot, aren’t I? I can’t believe I never even considered...”<br/>
“I - well we don’t know for sure! It could have been a… A translation error, or, or something. But if you have the document we can get to the bottom of this, we can... figure out what might have really happened. There might be more to the story, is what I -”<br/>
“I can’t believe she… Would she really have… Oh, God. Oh, bloody<i> hell</i>.”<br/>
Arthur looked at his hands. “What… What am I going to <i>do</i>?”<br/>
Sally was quiet for what seemed like a long time, long enough that Arthur finally looked up at her to see what was going on. She was standing uncertainly in the doorframe, not sure where to put her hands. She seemed to be vacillating, hesitating on whether or not to say something.<br/>
“You can… You can stay here, if you need,” she offered, finally. “Until you figure it out."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Refuge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hi everybody, thank you for your patience. I appreciate you all so much! :')<br/>This one's slightly on the short side but I feel pretty good about it. It's really interesting now that we properly "see" Sally through Arthur's eyes now for the first time. A lot of fun writing these two.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur couldn’t sleep a wink that night.<br/>
It wasn’t that Sally’s couch was far too short for a man of his stature, although it was, and if he tried to get comfortable he was stuck between pulling himself up and having the armrest dig uncomfortably into the back of his neck as he lay with his head uncomfortably propped, or otherwise sliding himself down and having his feet hang off the other end. <i>Well, there’s far worse alternatives. My back might be fucked regardless, but at least I’m out of the cold. And I’ve got a blanket, too.</i><br/>
A blanket which smelled of her. Sally, that was. She didn’t have any guest linens, she said - this was spared, generously, from her own bed. They said scent was the sense most connected to one’s memory, didn’t they? But this was a new one for him - the Sally he knew now was not the Sally of rockets and carved trees but the Sally of… hmm. He couldn’t quite place it - it smelled faintly of... chemical solvents, and some sort of gentle fruity smell, like bananas? He pulled the edge of the sheet closer to his face and inhaled deeply, for the… well, he didn’t really want to admit how many times he’d found himself doing it.<br/>
<i>Arthur, you bloody pervert. What’s wrong with you?</i> In a fit of agitation, disgusted with himself and not really knowing <i>why</i>, he threw the blanket off and turned to face the other way, towards the wall with the living room’s little telly and the bare assortment of furniture silhouetted in the darkness. He exhaled exasperatedly. Fact was, he was about to give up on getting sleep.It was no use.<br/>
It wasn’t the couch, no, and it wasn’t the incredibly novel and unfamiliar sound of a baby crying in the night that kept him up, either. It was a far-off sort of sound anyways - Sally slept in her bedroom with Gwen, upstairs from where he was in the little two-story terrace house - muffled but unmistakable. He felt kind of ashamed, now that he thought of it, that he hadn’t yet, well... properly introduced himself. He was both eager and nervous - what exactly <i>did</i> one say to a baby? Kids - well, he’d figured out how to talk with them again (or Mrs. Donahue’s two boys, at least) after all these years, with enough ease.. you could play make-believe with kids, and that made things easier - but a baby?<br/>
He’d been a little too wrapped up in this business with… well, with everything, and Sally had done her best to help, but she’d recognized his need to some space and had given it to him. She’d gone off and attended to her daughter while he sat, paced the floor and sat again, for however long until it was, apparently, time to be getting some rest.<br/>
He just couldn’t believe that Morgan would’ve been capable of such a thing. Sure, she had her reasons - he could see clearly enough why she’d be motivated to keep him around. He was a rather lucrative asset, after all. But did she really see him as so little beyond that? Just a freak to be exploited in her little traveling sideshow?<br/>
To think he’d been tempted to see her as a sister!<br/>
<i>What kind of person… what kind of person would do that? Lying about something as fucking awful as that? And for what? For your own benefit? To keep your pretty little part of the profits intact?</i><br/>
<i>Even I… Even I’m not </i>that <i>horrible</i>.<br/>
God, to think that Percy might really be still alive… That… Well, that changed everything. There was the chance, then, that he hadn’t really missed his chance to see him again - and it gnawed at him, prickled him with pins and needles that came from more than just the way he’d been laying on his arm. It was exciting - but a bit overwhelming as well, after everything he’d been through. It made him restless.<br/>
Of course, the notion that the document Morgan had handed him hadn’t, after all, been the final and complete truth, really just brought him to where he had been before - for all these years. Not knowing.<br/>
Always with the uncertainty, and so much of it. He wondered if he ever really would know for sure. Or if he’d be searching for the rest of his life.<br/>
He was at that point in the night where all his thoughts had gone stale as day-old coffee at the bottom of an electric percolator, but still continued to circulate restlessly, his neurons firing off aimlessly and uncontrollably just the same. Some rest would have done him good - which is why it was too bad he wasn’t getting any.<br/>
He felt the itch to get up, just to walk around, and had he been in more familiar surroundings he probably would have done so sooner. But as it was, he felt himself a very tenuous and undeserving guest. Sally may be tolerating him now, but who knows what she was really thinking of him, beyond her pity for his situation. He felt uneasy in his gratitude - just one small misstep, he felt, and he’d risk toppling things all over again. The whole flat, bathed in the darkness, felt sacred and inviolable to him - <i>leave no trace</i>. He wasn’t exactly all that accustomed to being a guest in a lady’s flat, come to think of it. What does one <i>do</i>? He found himself questioning the smallest of things. <i>Is it horribly impolite if I get out of bed - or, um, the couch, that is? What if I make too much noise and it wakes her? Am I allowed to just… help myself to a drink of water if I need it? But what if I don’t know where she keeps her glasses? Will I look like a nosey creep if I turn on the lights and have a root around? It’s not like I can exactly wake her and ask her permission. Even if it weren’t horribly rude, I’d look like a bloody child asking for another story and a tuck back into bed. Maybe I should just forget it. </i><br/>
<i>...God, but I swear I’ve never felt thirstier in my life. My throat feels drier than a bull’s bum going up a hill backwards.</i> <i>Why is it when you can’t have something it becomes all you can fucking think about?  </i><br/>
He rose quite slowly and, when his feet touched the ground he began walking to the kitchen with soft footfalls, quite literally as if he were walking on eggshells. Every nerve was strung on high alert, as if he were a kid again and scared to leave his room in the dark when he needed to go have a wee. Only this time he didn’t have Percy by his side to tell him there was no such thing as ghosts, and <i>see, look, if you turn on the - the light, you’d see that’s actually just the shadow of my… the shadow of my… the shadow of my jumper</i>…<br/>
Well, not that it was ghosts that he was much worried about right now. <i>It’d be a relief if all I had to be bothered about was ghosts again. </i>Arthur felt his way - eventually, ever-so-carefully - to the kitchen, his progress becoming easier as his eyes adapted to the dark.<br/>
Arthur jumped more than he’d have liked to admit when the overhead light flicked on without his having done it. He flinched and in the process knocked himself into the plate rack beside the sink, a pot clanging in the collision and just narrowly avoiding clattering to the floor as he managed to save it.<br/>
“Shh!” Sally put her finger to her lips. “I <i>just</i> got her down again. You don’t want to wake her, do you?”<br/>
“I er - I just er, ah - <i>sorry</i>!” He set the pot down where he thought it had been and put his hands up in front of him, almost involuntarily.<br/>
Sally took a second look at him and almost laughed. “You look as if you’ve been caught in the act of murder, or something.”<br/>
“No, I - sorry, I promise I wasn’t doing anything - that is to say, I wasn’t - I just um - <i>water</i>…”<br/>
“Water?” She couldn’t keep from laughing, although hushed. “Well, if it’s got you <i>that</i> badly, I suppose I can spare some. Don’t want you dying of dehydration on top of everything else, do we?” She took a glass off the plate rack, filled it at the sink, and held it out to him. He drank gratefully, still flustered.<br/>
“I’m making tea, myself,” she continued, picking up the kettle that was on the counter. “I can’t sleep. Do you want some?”<br/>
He blinked her into better focus, his bare eyes still hurting from the abrupt change from dark to light. She looked tired. Almost as tired as he felt, without hope for the relief of sleep. <i>But I haven’t got a baby, though... I think she might win this one.</i><br/>
But there was a certain beauty to her just that way, he thought dazedly, a sort of benevolence in her exhausted smile and the few out-of-place strands of brown hair that stuck out at angles. She stood in the kitchen in her black dressing gown, gathered and tied hastily around her waist, and if Arthur’s gaze followed the languid lines of the garment’s soft-looking edges, he could trace the delicate edges of her collarbone. He forced his eyes away.<br/>
“No, that’s alright, I… I mean, yes, that would be… If you don’t mind, that is, I’d love to - I don’t want to impose…” <i>Fucking hell, Arthur, pick one thing and say it. What’s the matter with you?</i> He put his hand to his forehead. “Sorry.”<br/>
“Is everything alright?” She asked, a bit more serious now. She touched her arm and glanced away, smiling a bit self-consciously, uncertainly. “That is, I mean - besides the… obvious.”<br/>
The obvious. Right. “Oh, er, yeah. Heh. I just… can’t sleep, either.”<br/>
“Right.” She was quiet for a moment as her eyes drifted off to the tiny window above the sink.  Arthur thought she wasn’t going to continue, but then she did. “It can all look a bit worse when it’s late at night and the world’s all quiet. But… We haven’t got that much longer before the sun comes back up. It’s six now. Only have to hang in a little longer.”<br/>
“It’s six already?” The dark winter evening - or, morning - had dragged on miserably, in the way sleepless nights generally did, such that he was shocked to find it was even past midnight. “I didn’t think that much time had passed. I, uh… Just a lot on my mind, I suppose.”<br/>
“Yeah.” She leaned past him to fill the kettle at the sink, and he stepped away, shyly, to allow her more room. “I hope the sofa’s alright. I wish I could offer you something better.”<br/>
“No, no, it’s alright.” <i>Well, I do miss my bed, but it’s far better than sleeping on the floor. </i>“Thank you, Sally, really, I… You’ve been far better to me than I deserve. I can’t tell you how much I, er, appreciate this.” He still didn’t understand why she would agree to such a thing. Why she’d invite him into her house, after everything and when, really, they’d barely had a proper conversation since they’d known each other as kids. Maybe it was something she decided on a whim. Out of pity. Maybe she regretted it. The more he followed that train of thought, the more he looked for clues that she was loathing every moment of this and the more he started finding them in every little thing.<br/>
Maybe she’d change her mind.<br/>
He didn’t think he wanted her to do that.<br/>
...No, definitely not. Oh, no...<br/>
“Don’t mention it.” She waved him offand smiled a smile that he could’ve sworn was a bit rueful. “We’re… We… Well, we go back quite long ago… Don’t we?”<br/>
“Yes.” He hesitated. “It’ll be… seventeen years, since we… Since you, er, moved in. In August. I had just turned thirteen.” <i>What a depressing, solitary little birthday that was. Or, it must have been. I’m… not sure, really.</i><br/>
“I remember. I was… very grateful. Though it was so hard to go on like everything was the same, after…” Her expression became pinched. “Well. See, I’m only repaying the favor then.” She looked up. “You helped me.”<br/>
<i>And then I threw you out onto the street. </i>Arthur didn’t say them, but the words hung at the back of his tongue. He felt them as if they were in the room with the two them, unspoken, heavy in the air.<br/>
She cleared her throat. “Go ahead, Arthur,” she urged after she set the kettle on, gesturing to the tiny kitchen table, “sit, if you like.”<br/>
Tentatively, carefully, he pulled out the simple wooden chair and sat down. Sally followed him, taking the seat opposite.<br/>
It had been such a long time, really, hadn’t it? He burned to know more - about what had really happened all those intervening years, and how things were now, how she’d gotten here. How, for one thing, she’d become a mum… Well, besides the obvious, of course. Arthur had so many questions and he wasn’t sure how to phrase them with any sort of tact, or how to avoid upsetting what seemed to him (whether accurately or not) such a tenuous balance between maintaining her apparent tolerance of him or offending her irreparably. He was almost too scared to say anything.<br/>
“I... Sally, I’ve meant to ask…” <i>Which question, Arthur? Pick something safe</i>. “How did you make it here? To… Well, you know. Er. From there...” Was it before or after he managed to escape himself? If she’d left after him, it couldn’t have been the Britannia Bridge. He’d, er… made sure of that, though quite unintentionally. “Not - not that I’m saying I didn’t think you could do it on your own, or anything of that sort, I just… I wanted to know. It couldn’t have been easy, with…”<br/>
“Arthur…” She shook her head. “I know what you meant. You haven’t got to... worry, so much.” She smiled again, a little guiltily, he thought, though he wasn’t sure what he ought to think. She looked at her hands; her thumb brushed over the table-top, feeling the grooves of the wood. “No, it… wasn’t easy. Well, it could have been worse, I suppose. I stole the General’s boat and, well, what can I say - whisked ourselves away in the night.”<br/>
<i>A boat. Of course! </i>He hadn’t even considered that. They had literally been surrounded by water, endless potential points of departure, and he’d been so focused on the one land bridge leading out of the isles. “Wow. Sally, I…” The edges of his lips almost curled into a smile of admiration. “Well. I always knew you’d put me to shame someday.”<br/>
“Is that right?” She laughed quietly.<br/>
“I mean in… You’d always had… You always had a clever sort of way of looking at things. You could look at something and just sort of… see it in a way I’d not have considered in a million years, just right away.” He smiled. “I’m not surprised you thought of that. And from General Byng, too, how did you... Wow. If anyone could actually pull that one off, it’d have to be you. How’d you do it?”<br/>
“Ah, simple!” She raised a hand in feigned nonchalance. “I only had to get my hands on a boat manual from an actual pirate, steal an out-of-circulation Lightbearer record for Dr. Faraday so she’d make me a boat motor, and get, ah, let’s see... shot by a tranquilizer dart and nearly made a fucking domestic prisoner of the General himself in his <i>oh-so-modern</i> safe house…”<br/>
“Well,” he exhaled, eyes wide. He was impressed. Impressed and concerned. “And you had a baby.”<br/>
“That’s right.” She smiled wryly. “And I had a baby.”<br/>
“I’m… Sorry, Sally, really. I should’ve... helped.”<br/>
“You’ve apologised already.” She shifted in her seat. “It probably was for the best, anyways. It might not have worked out very well, trying to sneak three people out at once…”<br/>
Arthur sighed. “But I could have done <i>something</i>. I’m so bloody… Daft.“ He shifted his weight onto his elbows, resting on the table, and he massaged his temples. “I just, ah… Sometimes I wonder if it’s all punishment for what I… I mean that I really feel as though I probably deserve… I... Sally, do you think I’m a bad person?”<br/>
“Arthur…”<br/>
He froze up instantly. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I… Shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t want to, er - to bother you with… everything.”<br/>
“No, really, it’s alright. Arthur, you can… talk to me…”<br/>
“I think maybe I… ought to go. I mean, not <i>go</i>. Just… take a… I think I’ll go take a walk. Clear my mind a tad.” He waved awkwardly. “I’ll… See you in a little bit.” He turned, went down the short hallway to the front door and picked up his coat from the hook on the wall, cursing himself under his breath. In his hurry he didn’t quite fully register register Sally’s “Wait, Arthur, are you sure you…” behind him before he closed the door.<br/>
<i>Why are you always running, Arthur</i>?<br/>
Maybe not always physically <i>running</i>. His pace was brisk, now, but far from a sprint. He wouldn’t go for that, if he could very well avoid it. <i>If I hadn’t smoked in high school</i>…<br/>
It was still dark outside. Typical for a winter’s morning. The sun wouldn’t rise until rather late.<br/>
<i>You can’t just pick up and avoid your problems every time something gets uncomfortable. You have to face everything eventually, don’t you?</i><br/>
He kept his head down, almost habitually by now, and hoped the people who passed by on their way to work wouldn’t pay him any notice. The streetlamps were still on, haloed in the impenetrable morning mist.<br/>
<i>Good thing Foggy Jack hasn’t made it to the Mainland…</i><br/>
<i>Heh. But really.</i><br/>
He vaguely took notice of the buildings he passed by. Bit different, this part of the city was, after he’d made a few turns out of the quiet, humble residential area Sally lived in and made it, quite unintentionally and rather thoughtlessly, to the main streets. His mind was on other things.<br/>
<i>Arthur, damnit, you’ve got to stop mucking everything up with Sally. You’ve done enough already.</i><br/>
<i>You’ve barely just started talking to her again, and here you go bothering her with all your little... problems. Bloody brilliant.</i><br/>
There was too much going on in his head. A good, long walk should sort him out.<br/>
He found himself wishing he’d brought his glasses. Then again, not wearing them served the purpose of making him harder to recognise. In his haste, he’d forgotten to go and retrieve them from where they lay on the endtable beside the couch. It was still so easy to forget he was <i>known</i> now, that he could no longer rely on being another face in the crowd. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.<br/>
“Arthur? Is that you?”<br/>
<i>Shit</i>. Arthur barely looked up and made only a perfunctory pause before picking up his pace. “Oh, no, sorry - always get mistaken for the lad, I’ll tell you, ha, <i>wish</i> I had his money! - well, I’m off to work, love to stop and chat but I can’t -”<br/>
“Morgan’s wondering where you’ve gone off to.” The man stepped in front of Arthur, blocking his path and forcing him to look at him.<br/>
Where had he seen that face before? It seemed familiar - sure, he’d had to acquaint himself with a lot of new faces recently, but he was sure he had seen this man before. More than once, actually. He was someone Morgan knew. He was older than her - Arthur guessed that he was in his 40s or 50s - with dark hair that was greying around the temples. He was often present somewhere at Morgan’s gatherings, or at places where his purpose was less clear, such as the business meetings she had insisted upon in order to ensure that “everything was in order,” and, come to think of it, Arthur had never really found out why. Aldous, he remembered now - that was his name.<br/>
Arthur didn’t even know what to say. He hadn’t thought this far ahead, or yet imagined that he would be confronted with that question.<br/>
“She is? I, er, I left a message on her answering machine just this morning,” he lied, hoping it would be enough to avoid further questions.<br/>
“Have you? Well, the message must have gotten lost. You’ve caused quite a stir.”<br/>
“Oh, I have?” Arthur had to think fast. “How, er, silly of her,” he said, shaking his head. “She’ll have forgotten about our arrangement. I’m supposed to be here in Westminster for the week as I’ve got a project at the theatre. We decided it’d be easier if I booked a hotel room nearby, rather than have to cross the bridge everyday and all that hassle. I’ll… be in touch with her then, make sure it’s all alright. Thank you.” He dodged out of his way and tried to end the conversation, but the funny thing about those was that they never seemed to end so easily when you most wanted them to.<br/>
“Oh, of course, of course. You don’t have to worry; I wouldn’t want you to be distracted from your work. I can let her know where you are.” He grinned. “If you’ll be so kind as to tell me where you’re staying?”<br/>
“No, that’s alright, it’s no bother for me to just give her a call and sort this out -”<br/>
“Please, I insist -”<br/>
“It’s… erm… It’s the…” He looked up and read the sign of the elaborate building in front of which they were standing. “<i>SAVOY.</i>” “Right here, actually. The Savoy. I was just on my way in.”<br/>
“Here at the Savoy, is that so?” He raised an eyebrow. “What is it that you’re working on at the theatre? Mo never told me about it,” he observed and then laughed, a little too heartily. “Could you believe that?”<br/>
“Heh - ah, well.” Arthur could feel his voice becoming strained. “There’s a… Sort of a variety show being put on, and I’ve been asked to serve as compere.”<br/>
“Oh, that’s fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.” He harrumphed in assent. “Still,” he tapped his finger to his lips, “it is <i>so</i> very strange. It is rather unlike our Morgan to forget something so big, isn’t it? She’s always so organized.”<br/>
“And with the tour on so soon,” he went on to suggest, ominously. “When were you supposed to leave for that, again? Next week?”<br/>
“Oh, er… I suppose it’s any day here now!” He forced a smile. “Terribly exciting, isn’t it? Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, truly, but if you’ll excuse me, I do have a… rather busy day ahead of me...”<br/>
“Right. I’m sure you do.” Aldous acknowledged, in words, but he caught him lightly by the shoulder anyways. “You know, funny thing, now that you mention it. I could have sworn when Mo called me this morning, she said that you’d left your flat without taking anything with you. Your suitcase was there beside your bed, empty.” He smiled malevolently. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of anyone checking into a hotel with no luggage. You must have been in<i> quite</i> the hurry.”<br/>
“Yes, I was, actually - I was running late…” Arthur was sweating.<br/>
“Would you like me to fetch some essentials for you? You must be quite lost, without the comforts of home -”<br/>
“That’s alright, thank you. I’ll just, ah, be on my way!” He chirped, pulling open the heavy lobby door.<br/>
Aldous took it and held it open. Arthur heard his voice behind him in a tone that almost made him shudder.<br/>
“You can’t just skive off forever. If you’d come to your senses you’d stop all this... childish nonsense. But if not, don’t worry... you <i>will</i> be found. It’s only a matter of time.”<br/>
Arthur stepped into the lobby of the Savoy. <i>Great</i>. A hotel full of rich people. Surely nobody would notice him there. If he wanted to just slip out unnoticed through some little side entrance, nobody could possibly complicate that plan.<br/>
...He’d be taking a bit of a detour on his way back, so it seemed.<br/>
Ah, God, what had he gotten himself into?  </p><p>“Sally,” he greeted as she opened the front door, and he made no delay in stepping inside. His heart was racing still.<br/>
“You’re back.”<br/>
“Yes - I got a bit held up, I, er - somebody… recognised me.” <i>And I had to lie my way out of the most opulent hotel in London. But that story can wait.</i> He smiled anxiously.<br/>
“I was sort of afraid… um, that you might not come back.”<br/>
“Oh. I’m sorry, I…” He looked at his hands, regret flooding through him. “Didn’t mean to leave in such a rush. I suppose I just… heh... just thought that maybe you needed a break from my…”<br/>
“What? Oh, no, no - not because...” The faintest blush rose to her cheeks. “Only because… Well. See for yourself.” She turned and gestured to the television across from the couch. The news was on. Arthur finally retrieved his specs and stood to make sense of it.<br/>
“...<i>have emerged regarding the alleged disappearance of Arthur Hastings less than twenty-four hours from his dramatic appearance at the Grande Bedivere on New Year’s Eve. Today, the second of January, manager Morgan Stone reports that he was last seen at his flat in South Kensington yesterday afternoon, and that he has not returned since. Fearing the worst but hopeful that the explanation will be harmless, Miss Stone has called for anyone with any information to contribute promptly to the search.</i>”<br/>
“They’re looking for me.”<br/>
Sally walked to stand beside him. “Apparently they are.”<br/>
“I got stopped in the street - it was someone Morgan knows - he said I… that I… He sort of, well, warned me that they <i>might </i>not be altogether happy that rather I prefer to, er, keep my distance from the person who quite possibly fucked me over for money.”<br/>
“I thought it mightn’t be a good idea for you to go out -”<br/>
Arthur sighed. “You were right, then.” He shook his head. “I’ll not be doing that any longer, will I? Not for the time being, at least. Not till all this -” he gestured anxiously to the telly, which had now changed over to a commercial break - “dies down.”<br/>
“You’re not planning on getting in touch, then?” She asked, wryly, as if she already well enough knew the answer. “Letting them know you’re alright?”<br/>
“If I’m lucky, and I wait long enough, maybe she’ll think I’m dead. That I did myself in or something.” <i>Maybe it’ll even be true. Ha.</i><br/>
“Arthur!” She covered her mouth, and Arthur wondered if he’d said that last bit aloud, or if she just still knew how to read his thoughts that well.<br/>
“Well! Well.” He just cleared his throat and shook his head. “I don’t want her to… If she gets her hands on me now she’ll… I signed a contract! I’m supposed to be leaving for a tour in one week. Knowing her, she’ll… She’d do whatever she could to see that I followed through. I’ve got to… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”<br/>
“Surely she can’t do that? You’re your own person. You’re allowed to say no to things, contract or no… Right?”<br/>
“Well... Maybe, Sally. But it won’t do me much good for the time being, will it? If everybody thinks I’m some sort of - I don’t know - whatever she’ll make up about me? If she gets to tell her own version of the story? It’ll only get harder than it already is to… to try and get around, or do <i>anything</i>, really...”<br/>
He turned abruptly, a tight ball of nerves. “I’ve got to lay low. I need to keep myself out of all this and figure out what on Earth I ought to…” He felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness and frowned uncertainly. “...If you’ll… still help me?”<br/>
“Arthur, this is… crazy.” She pursed her lips, looking at her feet. Arthur felt his heart sink. She was going to tell him no. He wouldn’t blame her for that.<br/>
“It’s absurd.” She looked up at him, continuing her thought. “Of course I’ll help you.”<br/>
Arthur blinked a few times.<br/>
“I’m going to help you find him,” she added, a bit softer. “Percy. If you… want me to.” She frowned. “Find what really happened, that is.”<br/>
“You are?”<br/>
“Yes, Arthur, I…” She rested a fleeting hand on his forearm.<br/>
From the little bassinet that he just realized was only a few metres away from them in the living room, the baby cried.<br/>
Sally smiled patiently. “Ah. Sorry. Sounds like somebody’s getting hungry for her mid-morning meal.”<br/>
“No, don’t be sorry.” <i>What was she going to tell me?</i> Dazedly, Arthur padded behind her, following and watching as Sally leaned down and swept her baby up into her arms, comforting her into quiet with promises of a fresh bottle of milk.<br/>
She turned and saw Arthur. Her lips seemed to hesitate a moment before breaking into a gentle smile. She held Gwen up so she could see Arthur and she him.<br/>
“Gwen darling, do you see this man? This is Arthur. Mummy knew him a long, long time ago. Little Artie, they used to call him. But he’s not so little anymore, is he?”<br/>
Gwen gazed up at Arthur with wide, uncertain eyes, evaluating. She looked like she wasn’t quite sure of what to make of this tall stranger now standing in the middle of her house. Her nose ran.<br/>
“Hello... Gwen. Pleased to meet you,” he introduced with a wave, smiling sheepishly. “Arthur Hastings, at your service.” Gwen just stared, as babies are wont to do.<br/>
“Aw, don’t worry, darling. I’m sure you’ll warm up to him. He’ll be staying with us for a little while. But he’s a good man, Arthur is. He’s good.”<br/>
Even those simple words were enough to make Arthur’s heart swell and his face flush. “I - er - yes!” He grinned, stepping closer. “I’m honored to be a guest in your humble abode, er, if you’ll allow it, dear Gwen. Um..” He chuckled delicately as he watched the clear rivulet of snot run further down Gwen’s face. “Oh dear, you’ve got a little… Let me, er, I think I’ve a tissue somewhere in my pocket…” Arthur fished it out and moved to gently, if a little awkwardly, wipe Gwen’s cheek when Sally flinched.<br/>
Arthur froze. “Sorry - sorry, I uh… Just wanted to help, I thought since you had your hands full I would - I’m sorry…”<br/>
Sally shook her head, eyes wide. “No! No, it’s fine, Arthur, really. I’m sorry. Go on...”<br/>
Picking up on her mother’s uncertainty, Gwen turned her head and began to squirm in Sally’s arms, fussing.<br/>
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Is there… Is there anything I can do to help?”<br/>
“No, no, I’m fine. I can handle it...”<br/>
“Right.” He winced internally. Well, externally, too, most likely. “I’ll just… leave you to it, then,” he mumbled.<br/>
He watched her walk into the kitchen with little Gwen. Sally’s child. The little Sally Boyle he’d known all those years ago was all grown up now and - for better or for worse - so was he.</p>
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